


High enough for you to pull me under

by abrighteryellow



Series: High enough for you to pull me under [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Adult Harry Styles, Adult Louis, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Bartender Niall, Body Swap, Bully Zayn, Bullying, Coming of Age, Dirty Dancing, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Liam Is Pure, M rating is for the epilogue, M/M, Making Out, Outing, Polyamorous Character, So have fun, Social drinking, Time Travel, Young Harry Styles, Young Louis Tomlinson, Zayn stans stick with me, the side pairings came as a surprise to me too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-26 01:09:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 65,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15652692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrighteryellow/pseuds/abrighteryellow
Summary: “Huh,” Harry says, sarcasm dripping over his words. “You seemed to get over it just fine, after a while. You were basically the king of the whole school. I don’t know anyone who had abettertime at school than you, actually.” Louis has no response to this, because, well, he has no idea how it had all actually went down.Harry takes his silence as cowardice, as he should. “Anyway.” Harry strolls on long legs into the back room and rolls out another keg. “Water under the bridge, right?” It slams into the floor when he rights it, and Louis is lost again.“Harry,” he offers plaintively. “You’re my best mate.”“Yeah. I was.” Harry holds out his hand again, not bothering to wipe the grime from the keg off this time. “Good luck to you, Louis.”Louis makes a mistake that alters the course of his entire life. The universe wants him to fix it.13 Going On 30AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> About a year ago, I had the thought, "Harry would be a great Matt Flamhaff." And thus the idea for this fic was born.
> 
> But it would simply not have gotten anywhere if it weren't for my charming, witty, and brilliant betas [crinkle-eyed-boo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimmieRocks/pseuds/crinkle-eyed-boo) and [disgruntledkittenface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disgruntledkittenface/pseuds/disgruntledkittenface). They listened to me whine and complain about how I "don't know how to write fiction" and were like, "DO IT ANYWAY," patiently taught me the quirks of AO3, caught my clumsy continuity errors, and were (and continue to be) all-around cheerleaders for me and for this particular work. All remaining errors are mine and mine alone.
> 
> This fic was inspired by _13 Going On 30_ , truly one of the greatest films of all time. It's a body swap rom-com, and so is this story. So yes, Louis is going to be in some adult, romantic situations and dealing with some adult feelings when he is emotionally 13. I tried to keep these situations as clean as possible, but heads up if that makes you uncomfortable. And as I said in the tags, the M rating is for the epilogue. There's no smut where inner-13-year-old Louis is concerned.
> 
> Title is from Liz Phair's "Why Can't I?"
> 
> If you like, please consider reblogging the [Tumblr post!](http://a-brighter-yellow.tumblr.com/post/176893271998/high-enough-for-you-to-pull-me-under-by)

For fuck’s sake, has the auditorium always been this big?

Louis releases the heavy stage curtain with the hand that’s not fisted in the bottom of his t-shirt. Christ, how did he convince himself that was ready for this?

Rehearsals had been fine. Almost boring, really. While he and Harry waited their turn to run through their song, Louis had counted the wads of oily chewing gum cemented into the auditorium floor and watched the AV Club president lose his fight with a mass of thick, black cables. But those hallmarks of his normal, not particularly dazzling school were only available to soothe Louis with their tedium when the fluorescent lights were blazing overhead. Now the house lights are down. Parents and peers converse in their seats, sending an indecipherable hum backstage. Some soprano, who clearly has no respect for Louis’s nerves, is running through airy scales behind him. This is real. A real, public performance. Louis briefly considers pulling the fire alarm and legging it.

Instead he turns, faced with the reason why he probably won’t.

“Lou,” Harry whispers. “They came to hear us. I know they didn’t all come _just_ to hear us. But they’re going to hear us, all the same.”

Louis pulls his shoulders back and shoots a deceptively confident grin at his bandmate. He _is_ the older one, after all. It wouldn’t do to have an 11-year-old be braver than him about some silly school talent show.

So what if that talent show lies at the precipice of the rest of Louis’s life? He turns 13 in a few weeks: an age that he’s mentally bookmarked as the one where things will start to happen – things he can control.

He’s promised Harry that he’ll map out teenagerdom for him, as well. Being two years older than his best friend, Louis has valuable intel to share: the cafeteria specials to avoid, the least crowded locker hallway, the teachers who encourage soulful, sensitive boys instead of asking them how they got that way. He likes making Harry’s life easier. It’s the big brother in him.

Louis had woken up one morning when he was nine to the sounds of gruff men with heavy Manchester accents discussing the best way to get a queen-sized bed frame into the cottage next door. Harry moved into the neighborhood with his mother and older sister, and as far as Louis was concerned, lifelong friendship was the only reasonable option. Harry had still slept in cotton dinosaur pajamas – the kind with the wide bands around the ankles – and he was three inches shorter than Louis. But Louis still lamented the day he outgrew his own dinosaur pajamas and another pair hadn’t come home with his mother’s Saturday shop. Four younger sisters. Was Louis really in a position to nitpick the age of his first real boy _friend?_

The years went by in a flurry of FIFA, obscenely unhealthy after-school snacks, and music. Above all, music. Harry’s parents were divorced, but his dad had left Harry with a decent chunk of his record collection. Louis hasn’t been many places yet, but he still reckons that his favorite spot in the world is in Harry’s basement, laying flat on his back next to his best mate, tracing random shapes on the carpet with his index finger while Stevie Nicks or Roger Waters sings them both into a trance.

Music is their thing, and not just the pretentious stuff. At Louis’s house, pop music reigns. His mum relented to “home alone” privileges at 12, and “alone” obviously includes Harry. It’s a regular routine: When the girls all go out together for birthday parties or lessons, Harry and Louis clear the floor of Louis’s bedroom, turn up the radio, and dance until someone drops or (more likely) gets too hungry to continue. Then it’s bursts of laughter mid-chew and pizza roll detritus flying across his mum’s freshly disinfected kitchen island. His mastery of Beyonce’s moves aren’t anything Louis would readily admit to his peers in his own year, but the idea of being embarrassed never crosses his mind when he’s with Harry. It’s a strict no-shame zone.

Listening to music eventually evolves into trying their unpracticed hands at actually making some. Harry’s step dad came home one night with an acoustic guitar from a reputable resale shop, and that was that. He taught Harry what he remembered, and the rest Harry had worked out on his own. Is in the process of working out on his own. Whatever. The point is, he can pluck out chords that, when played in succession, actually sound like things. Louis appointed himself the lead singer of their fetus of a band, though any song they’ve played reaches its peak when both of their clear, pre-pubescent voices melt into each other. They’ve been “working on their sound,” as Louis tells his mother, since the start of the summer. But this talent show marks the first time the musical stylings of Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles have been heard by anyone who’s not related to either of them.

Louis could die. He could literally perish. He could spontaneously crumble into a dust of some kind. The school janitor would sweep him into a dustpan in the morning, and he’d never have willingly invited comparison of himself to a modern post-punk god in front of his entire school.

Choosing a song to perform had been an arduous and lengthy process. Harry and Louis finally settled on an unplugged cover of Green Day’s “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.” Neither of their mums are very keen on the adult themes of the song (“Darling, it’s just so dour. Do you know anything by the Monkees?” Louis’s mum had asked.), but the lyrics are vague enough to have passed administrative muster.

“I walk a lonely road,” Louis sings under his breath. He doesn’t know much about keys, but he knows when he’s out of the right one.

“Lou, I’ll be right back. Do you want a lozenge? Some lemon water?”

Either is bound to trigger Louis’s gag reflex, so he shakes his head no. He gives Harry an encouraging smile though, just to let him know he hadn’t bothered him by asking.

Harry had been reading up on the rider requests of professional singers. It’s knowledge the hopeful boy truly believes he’ll need sooner rather than later. He especially likes the legend of Van Halen and their “no brown M&Ms” rule.

“It’s not like they’re picky about their candy,” Harry explained to Louis one day. “It’s not like they even cared. But they’d put that note in every rider as a test. To make sure the venue read it carefully. If they found brown M&Ms in their dressing room, then they knew to double-check their technical set-up. How do you think they came up with that?”

Louis didn’t know about the origin of the M&M trick, but he did know that his under-funded public school wouldn’t have the means to grant the particular wishes of all its talent show performers. It was enough for Louis that the Vice Principal and head of the music department allowed Harry to perform. It would be another year before Harry were actually enrolled in the school. But since his sister Gemma is in Louis’s year, and Harry is a part of an act with a current student, the exception was made. Harry brought lemon water and lozenges from home.

“No M&Ms?” Louis had teased him when he unpacked his stash.

“We’ll save that for Wembley,” Harry answered, joking and serious at the same time.

Louis continues to pace as Harry begins an animated conversation with the drama teacher serving as stage manager for the evening. He could talk to anyone. He treats adults like people. Like there could be no reason why a middle-aged educator with a coffee-stained tie and a mortgage wouldn’t want to be in a serious conversation with an 11-year-old. He is really something else, and Louis is about to puke absolutely everywhere and let his best friend down in the process.

“Oi, Tommo.”

Louis’s head whips around (oof, no sudden movements) to look at the source of the greeting. Zayn Malik, the most popular kid in his year by a mile, regards Louis coolly from the doorway. Two of Zayn’s similarly monied friends appear on either side of him like a teenage Secret Service detail. Louis’s stomach gurgles in warning.

Why is he even _here,_ is the thing. It’s not Zayn’s style to make a spectacle of himself onstage to entertain a bunch of parents. The very idea. It’s like picturing the Pope at a dance recital.

Zayn’s art was made in relative private. The boy had won every school art contest Louis could remember, and had steadily cultivated a reputation for being aloof and brooding, not to mention desperately talented. He’d been enlisted by the overworked staff to design and paint some set pieces and signs for the talent show, but they were long done. Nothing requires his presence here, now, backstage with Louis...and Harry. Fuck. Harry.

“I say, Tommo.”

“Yeah? Hi. Yeah?”

Zayn looks away for a second and smiles to himself, as if this generic response were exactly what he wanted to hear.

“I hear you’re singin’ for us tonight.”

Louis tracks Harry in his periphery, still in teacher-charm mode. Good. “That’s right. I’m performing.”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, mate. ’Cause, see, I got a look at one of the programs and I saw that you’re not working alone.”

Louis shifts his weight.

“Yeah,” Zayn continues. “I think they made a mistake, because next to your name, it says ‘and Harry Styles.’ And the only Harry Styles I can think of is Gemma’s little brother. In primary.”

Harry must have heard his name the second time around. Before Louis can breathe, Harry is right there, at his side.

“That’s right! Gemma’s my sister. Do you know her?” he asks Zayn, blissfully unaware that Louis is currently being sucked helplessly towards a social black hole.

Suddenly, Louis sees everything. He sees Harry from outside of their friendship. He sees Harry’s pressed slacks and smart red jumper, both from the kids’ department and probably picked out by his mother. He sees his too-eager smile and his few remaining baby teeth. He sees the way he doesn’t even track the disdainful reaction of Zayn and his friends, because he doesn’t know yet how it goes here. And Louis sees himself, standing next to Harry. About to make the riskiest move of his young life. His partner in this endeavor? Someone who still sleeps with a teddy bear. (Louis does too, but only when there’s a storm, so.)

“That’s really...sweet,” Zayn chuckles. “I need to get in on this Big Brothers program. Are you getting extra credit?” Harry frowns. Louis has the wild notion to dump Harry’s cup of lukewarm lemon voice water down the front of Zayn’s expensive jeans.

“Or, wait.” Zayn chuffs the shoulder of one of his Axe-scented cronies. “Are you trying to get with Gemma? Because if that’s what this whole–” he holds out his hand and traces a circle in the air with his palm “– _thing_ is about, then, mate, I approve. She’s well fit.”

Harry isn’t easily ruffled. He expects the world to be kind. But Zayn questioned his status with Louis, and Louis can feel the indignation rising off of Harry like heat from a fresh burn.

“Hey! Louis is _my_ friend, not Gemma’s. I mean they do homework together sometimes, but I’m the one he plays with everyday after school.”

Louis winces. Harry means play music, but that’s not how it sounded. It sounded like trains or dolls or cops and robbers. Baby games. Zayn’s face twists into a nasty grin; he looks as though he’s just received some very good news.

“Is that right, Curly? Well, I won’t intrude. Louis, I’m so glad you’ve found a playmate worthy of your time. Can’t wait for the show. We’ll be cheering you on from the front row. Come on, boys.”

Then Zayn and his friends are gone, leaving behind a cloud of cologne and superiority. Louis stares at the door for a solid minute before Harry tugs lightly on his sleeve.

“Lou...Lou, was that a _teacher?_ He looked so old. Should we run through that harmony one more time?”

But Louis is busy. His entire teenage future is flashing before his eyes. With a primary school kid as his best, most loyal, and let’s face it, neediest friend, he’ll never have the opportunity to get close to kids in his own year. No one will ever consent to go out with him. He’ll be an outcast, or worse: a nobody, floating through the halls with no one but Harry knowing or caring about his ambitions, his best jokes, or his Noel Gallagher impression. Walking out onto that stage with Harry would be complete and utter suicide. He is so densely stupid not to have seen it before that he feels like screaming.

Harry steps into his eyeline to try again for his attention. Well, maybe Louis needs to pay attention to other things sometimes. Would Harry ever let him?

“Lou.” Another doleful attempt.

Louis looks down into Harry’s eyes for the first time since Zayn invaded their space. And the undisguised trust and admiration he sees there scares the living shit out of him. This is what drowning feels like.

“Harry…” His voice cracks a little. Louis really should have taken him up on that lemon water. “Harry. I can’t do this.”

“Go over the harmony again? I know, I feel like we nailed it. Too much practice is just as bad as not enough, that’s what Robin says.”

“No, Harry, listen.” Louis puts his hands on the younger boy’s shoulders. “I can’t sing with you tonight.”

“Wh-what? What are you talking about? The show starts in…” Harry glances up at the backstage digital clock. “Less than five minutes. Lou, you promised. We rehearsed like crazy.” Harry’s voice rises in pitch as Louis draws back his hands, picks up his backpack from under the prop table, and begins to walk towards the exit.

“My mum is here. And my sister, and my grandparents! Lou, _please._ What did I do? Are you angry with me? What did I do?”

Louis can’t look at him. He knows Harry well enough to know how he sounds when he’s about to cry.

Louis half-runs from the backstage exit to the double doors leading to the parking lot and takes a huge gulp of fresh air as soon as he gets outside. He dodges parents and friends being herded through the doors before curtain and texts his mother from his emergency flip phone, hoping she’s figured out how to open messages. She’ll wonder why, if he’s not feeling well, he walked the quarter of a mile home alone instead of asking her for a ride. For the next two weeks, she’ll ask every day or so what Harry’s been up to lately. Eventually, she’ll stop.


	2. Chapter 2

Louis’s birthday falls on a Saturday this year. Baby Jesus gets Sunday. His mum says it’s because the Christ Child knows that 13 is an important one.

She’s always been good like that. Louis’s mum makes a huge deal about Louis’s birthday. She refuses to serve any food she’s also serving on Christmas. She’d never  _ dream  _ of combining two presents. He kind of adores her for it.

“Good morning, chicken,” she says softly, pushing open the door. “I don’t want to rush the young man who now lives in my house, but birthday breakfast is ready.” 

Louis indulges in a full-body stretch, hoping to feel his toes hit the bottom of the bed frame. (nope, no midnight growth spurt), and pushing his fringe out of his face. “Be right down, mum.” 

“Okay, love.”

This is it. Louis has been waiting for this moment since he would watch from the window as the bigger kids walked to school unattended, looking impossibly glamorous and capable. He’s a real teenager now, and life awaits. 

But the talent show put a damper on that, if he’s being honest. And not just the explaining he had to do with his mum regarding the runner he pulled. 

At first, he dreaded the knock at the door – opening it to chubby tear-stained cheeks. Then he waited for it. Then he  _ wished  _ for it. It never came. Harry never confronted Louis about how Louis had – shit –  _ abandoned  _ him. And Louis had waited too long to make amends himself. Afternoons had been quietly spent memorizing the last few albums he’d bought from the record store. Louis couldn’t help noting the the riffs Harry would try to mimic, the lyrics he’d scrawl onto the faux-suede piping of his backpack. But Harry never came over, so Louis kept the information to himself.

For as close as they were, Louis’s mother liked to give him space to work things out. If he was upset, she wouldn’t follow him to his room on the heels of a slammed door. She’d let him cry then calm himself before she’d offer her comfort. It wasn’t cruel so much as it was a trusting kindness. By the time Louis made it through his initial, visceral reaction, he’d be craving a heart-to-heart. Nothing ever seemed as bad afterwards.

He overheard her talking in the kitchen with Harry’s mum Anne the other day. He could tell from that they were talking about this hiatus in the friendship-of-the-century.

“I don’t know, Anne. Has he said anything to you?” his mother asked.

“He refuses to talk about it, except to say that he must have done something wrong,” Anne answered.

“Well, I don’t know how that could possibly be, the angel,” Jay paused. “Maybe that age difference is just catching up to them.” Louis felt impossibly sad, and stayed upstairs until he heard his mother calling out a goodbye to Anne through the backdoor.

So today, the great birthday, a cartoon cloud may as well be hanging over Louis’s head. In fact, he’s not even in the mood for his afternoon party, meant to be attended by eight boys from his year. (Xbox, The Killers, those tongue-melting pizza rolls.) But Jay has been talking about it excitedly for weeks, believing herself to be reflecting Louis’s own anticipation. There’s no way he can cancel it now. 

His sisters are waiting around the table when Louis comes down. They’re wearing their own plastic crowns, and Fizzy is holding out the biggest, gaudiest one to him. Before it lands properly on his head, they’re on him. He’s being squeezed on all sides with syrupy hands. They’re small and strong and loving and vulnerable, and he thinks, “This is why I can’t be a baby anymore.”

As he and the girls finish up the last batch of pancakes – still slightly batter-y, just like he likes them – they hear the sound of something hitting the floor in the front hallway. He’s the man of the house, so Louis gets up to investigate. Directly below the mail slot is a one of those burnable CDs with the clear jewel case that comes in a set of ten. The case popped open with the impact, and when Louis sees the words written in biro on the disc, he takes extra care to put it back in without scratching it.

_ Happy 13, Lou. I’m sorry.  _ It’s Harry’s handwriting. Of course.

“What is it, babes?” his mum calls from the kitchen, but Louis is already halfway up the stairs.

“Erm, early birthday present! One of the guys can’t make it.”

If she answers, he doesn’t hear it, because Louis is already in his room and shutting the door. He doesn’t have a CD player, so he pops the disc into his clunky, secondhand laptop. The operating system groans with the burden of pulling up the disc’s contents. It’s just one track, about three minutes long. Untitled.

This is his first communication with Harry in weeks. Leave it to the kid to be bolder than he is. Leave it to him to give  _ Louis  _ a present, even after Louis humiliated him and broke his little humongous heart. Louis winces as he presses play, confident from the “I’m sorry” that there’s a strong chance Harry hasn’t switched his sound over to death metal so he can ream Louis out through song.

Tentative guitar chords come first, solemn and gentle. Harry’s clear, reedy voice follows. 

It’s a song about friendship, that much is for sure. It’s very simple, not at all polished. But Louis can feel those naked emotions of Harry’s making themselves fiercely known. It embarrasses Louis. Harry isn’t even blaming him, and he  _ should  _ be. He did nothing wrong, yet Harry is extending the olive branch.  _ This is why the world is going to eat him alive, _ Louis thinks. 

Louis angrily slams on the Escape key halfway through the second verse. (Something about having adventures together, he doesn’t know.) He always thought 13 would be the beginning of something, but never considered that it would be the end of other things. (His mother, more than once: “Oh, love. What’s the rush? What I wouldn’t give to be your age again.”) But as he literally silences Harry’s request for Louis to please, please wait for him, Louis has the distinct impression that he’s passing a point of no return. How can he move forward if he’s always waiting for Harry to catch up? Besides, it’s better for Harry to make some friends his own age. That’s it. He’s doing him a favor.

Louis turns his attention to getting ready for his party. His mother has already laid out the jeans they just bought and his favorite soft, green, wool jumper on his bed. Ouch. Score one for mum, zero for self-sufficient manliness. He pulls the outfit on, the jeans stiff with newness. After lacing up his trainers, Louis turns to his mirror to see if he looks any older. He certainly feels it.

A doorbell rings, and a stampede of little sock-clad feet goes wild. Louis cringes. Their godmother was  _ supposed  _ to have picked them up to go to the park by now. He’s nearly out the door to go rescue whichever friend has had the misfortune to have arrived first. But Louis pauses and does an about-face at the last second. He strides back into his bedroom and yanks down the  _ Grease _ poster that hangs over his bed. He shoves it in the wastepaper basket under his desk. It doesn’t quite fit. John Travolta’s crinkled face smirks at him accusingly.  _ Can it, Zuko _ , Louis thinks.  _ I know what I’m doing. _

Stan is here first, and he is not alone.

Next to Stan, scanning Louis’s house like an estate agent, is Zayn Malik. 

Louis briefly freezes but is able to (mostly) collect himself before Zayn’s lazy gaze can land on him. He doesn’t smile, and Louis briefly thinks that he’s about to be the butt of a prank. Either that, or Zayn is here to assassinate him, as a part of some kind of geek mercy killing initiative. He’d welcome it at this point.

“Alright?” Zayn drawls. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just continues his interior design survey. His eyes widen when they land on a framed photo of Louis in his juniors hip-hop dance recital costume on the foyer table. Louis throws out a hand and smacks the photo down. He wishes he’d never heard of Usher, sequins, or “the pony.”

“Just a gag photo, boys,” he laughs nervously. “Come on in, come on in. Zayn, I didn’t know you were coming, but of course, the more the merrier. Don’t exactly need an RSVP in this house!”

He’s babbling. Someone stop him.

Louis leaves Stan and Zayn in the playroom (called the “TV room” today for teenage birthday purposes) and nearly sprints to the kitchen to get them some sodas. Outside of Zayn’s orbit of coolness, he can think somewhat straight.  _ Right. Rob.  _ Louis remembers that Stan’s brother Rob is 16, drives a vintage car, and is one of the stars of his own year. No doubt Zayn wants an in there, and figures hanging with Stan is a good way to get it. Honestly, Louis wouldn’t care if Zayn had been blackmailed into showing up to his party. This is the chance of a  _ lifetime, _ and he’s not going to waste it. 

Louis comes back into the play room with a soda in each hand and a manic grin on his face.

“Here’s to ya!” Zayn looks at him like has three heads.

_ Shake it off, Tommo.  _ “So, Xbox first? I was thinking a game of  _ Vice City.” _

But Zayn is already plopped down at Louis’s mum’s computer typing “victoria beckham hot” into the search bar. That’ll be a fun one to explain later. 

Since that damage is done, Louis sidles up to Stan and lowers his voice. “What do we  _ do  _ with him?” 

“I don’t think you have to entertain him like visiting royalty, mate. He seems perfectly happy over there.”

Stan juts his chin in the direction of the computer. Now Zayn is scrolling through the results for “david beckham hot.”  _ Interesting,  _ Louis notes. 

The doorbell rings again. Louis closes his eyes and waits for the stampede. Nothing. He kicks a topless doll with a thousand-yard stare under the couch as he goes to answer the door, calling “Probably Oli!” behind him.

Instead, he opens the door to see Harry. He’s holding a box of a dozen cupcakes spelling out “HAPPY BDAY LOU,” he has his guitar strapped to his back, and he looks like he’s waiting to hear back from a judge about a life sentence. All Louis can do is gape at him, paralyzed with fear.

“Louis. I know you’re mad at me. And I hope you’re not mad at me for coming over. Your mum’s probably making you a big birthday dinner.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot in the accumulating snowfall.

“But my mum helped me bake these cupcakes and I, um, did the piping myself. And I wanted to see how you liked your present. Maybe it made you less mad. I hope it did. I’m not upset about the talent show anymore. Well, I am a little, but there’s next year, yeah? We’ll be even better.”

Louis still can’t speak.

He hears the clump of really expensive trainers behind him, and Louis’s heart drops into his stomach. 

“Well, if it isn’t a singin’ telegram!” Zayn sneers. “Or is this some kind of mobile bake sale primary is doing? Tryin’ to raise money for that trip to Dora the Explorer on Ice, is it?"

Harry’s brow furrows and his eyes dart from Zayn to Louis, right in front of him.

“Are you having a party, Lou?” His voice gets small. Louis is a monster.

“Yeah, kid,” Zayn answers. “But you better run on home, because the booze and strippers are on the way.”

Stan appears next to Zayn and looks at Louis helplessly. They both know that neither of them has the social capital to shut Zayn down.

Zayn takes a few steps forward and claps a hand on Louis’s shoulder. 

“I thought your boy Louis here was a lost cause,” he says, leaning closer to Harry. “Word around school is that he can write a tune, and to be honest, I’m putting my own little band together.”

Harry goes white.

“But it seems like your little Kidz Bop thing is over now, so he’s free to collaborate with me.” 

Louis is being handed a key to the school. It’s all he’s ever wanted. So why does he feel like he’s rotting from the inside out?

Harry’s arms tremble a little under the weight of the box.

“Is that true, Louis? Don’t you want to play music with me anymore?”

Louis feels Zayn dig his fingertips into his shoulder. 

“You heard him, Harry. Our Kidz Bop thing is over. Thanks for the cupcakes though. The girls will love ’em.”

For one second, Louis thinks Harry is going to hurl the whole box at him. Instead he just lets go. Just lets them fall into the snow beneath him. The red icing melts into it like blood. 

Ashamed and furious, Harry runs in the direction of his house, but the snow is too high to accommodate speed. He trips over his own feet and lays out face-first in the accumulation. Louis’s body reacts, jerks forward to go help him. Zayn holds him back with that one hand, dextrous and strong from wielding his paintbrushes.

Harry staggers up by himself. He turns back to the door and tries to wipe the snow and tears off his face with the sleeve of his parka. He doesn’t say anything else to Louis, just looks. Louis won’t laugh, like Zayn is. But he does his best to look unmoved. Harry sets off back towards his house, this time trudging along slowly, his guitar case dampening with precipitation. 

Louis closes the door and tries to forget the look on Harry’s face. The rest of the guys arrive eventually, all stunned to see Zayn among them. Louis and Zayn spend the party talking about music, mostly about how Louis’s skills are going to make Zayn look good. 

When everyone is gone and Louis is about to crawl into bed, a self-loathing impulse takes over. He pulls his laptop onto his thighs and pulls up the E: drive. He presses play on Harry’s “Untitled” again, and then the repeat button. Louis cries himself to sleep with his best friend’s voice in his ear.


	3. Chapter 3

Louis feels like shit.

But it’s not the kind of shit he was expecting to feel – not the piercing headache and cavernous emptiness that come after a night of weeping. Well, it is those things, but it’s also a tsunami of nausea. Louis feels the chunks rising and stumbles out of bed. He shoves open the bathroom door, saying a silent prayer that Lottie isn’t in there straightening her hair, and throws himself at the mercy of the toilet. He hurls into it – once, twice, three times. And then he just sits for a while, resting his forehead on the cool porcelain, trying to get his bearings. 

When he thinks he can move his body without vomiting again, Louis clamps his right hand on the countertop. If he weren’t so ill, maybe he’d notice how it’s constructed of flawless marble instead of his mother’s dinged tile. Maybe the change in his center of gravity would make an impression, if he even  _ had  _ a center of gravity right now.

As it is, he just staggers back into his bedroom, sinking miserably and cluelessly back into 800-thread count sheets that most definitely do not have Transformers on them. 

He drifts back into a restless sleep. Half an hour later Louis is awakened again by a desperate thirst. The door opens with a click, but he doesn’t open his eyes for it.

“Sorry if you already made breakfast, mum. I’m  _ really  _ not feeling well,” he whines. “Can I have a glass of water though?”

There’s a pause. Then:

_ “Mum?  _ Those pills Alistair gave me were better than I thought.”

Louis shoots up in bed to get a look at the very manly figure who matches that very manly voice. 

An approximately six-foot-tall, dark-haired  _ man  _ is standing in his bedroom, holding a Costa bag and a tray of hot cups. The whole thing is so ridiculous that of all the thoughts he could be thinking, Louis’s first is that the nearest Costa is almost 30 minutes away.

Louis finally takes a look around, searching for some sign that he’s actually dreaming. Moving spots on the wall, perhaps.

How about an entirely different  _ room  _ than the one he went to sleep in?

Louis has the realization that he’s sitting in the middle of a four-poster king-sized bed in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. The walls aren’t moving; they’re actually painted a soothing, tasteful grey. The decor is sleek and modern _.  _ John Travolta isn’t in the bin. There isn’t a dirty sock or  _ NME _ magazine in sight. And again, Louis is very nearly naked. 

“Babe, I can’t believe you’re still flying,” the man says. He puts the coffee tray down on a lucite table and prowls towards the bed. Louis instinctively pulls the covers up towards his neck, like a maiden in a vampire movie. “I thought you were a pro at this.”

That would actually explain a lot, Louis thinks. He’s only taken one drag off of one of Rob’s cigarettes – that, plus a few beers on occasion being the sum total of his experimentation with vice – but maybe someone laced his soda at the party and that’s why he’s hallucinating this beautiful – if alarming man.

That’s the same man, mind you, whose meaty hand is currently pawing at the length of duvet gripped tight between Louis’s fingers.

“As long as you’re still partying, why don’t we take advantage?” Tall, dark, and  _ very _ horny stranger asks. “Fuck the coffee.” He tugs the fabric harder.

At this point in time, Louis takes advantage of his extensive experience wrestling with his older cousins. As the small but powerful one, his greatest advantage has always been his ability to duck out of danger and wriggle out of holds. Now is an occasion for a daring escape, so Louis slips out of bed and side shuffles into the bathroom, not daring to look back.

“What the–”

But the stranger isn’t fast enough to stop him. Louis shuts the bathroom door and scrambles to lock it. He turns around to catch his breath and slams his back against the wood, painted the same silvery grey as the bedroom walls. He can feel the guy trying the knob, calling into the bathroom to see if Louis is okay. 

_ He must think I’m freaking out, _ Louis thinks.  _ Well, got it in one. _

He lets the guy’s pleas for Louis – “babe” – to open the door go unanswered, because uh,  _ no.  _ Eventually, the guy gives up. 

“Fuck. Splash some water on your face, alright? I’m going to call Alistair. If that dick is trying out something new on us, I swear, I’ll strangle him.” His voice gets farther and farther away on that last sentence, mercifully.

Louis lets out a shuddering breath, removing his hands from his ears and raising his head. He surveys his surroundings, which are just as foreign to him as everything he saw in the last room.

This bathroom is easily twice the size of the one he shares with Lottie. The shower alone could fit at least four people. In place of a mildewing curtain to keep the water in, there’s a pristine sliding glass door. The marble around the twin sinks looks like something out of one of his mum’s  _ House Beautiful  _ magazines – what he can see of it at least – most is covered by a salon’s worth of hair and skin products. Expensive-looking ones. Crumpled but plush towels litter the tiled floor; clean ones are tucked into what looks like a very small refrigerator. Louis pulls the handle and warmth tumbles out.

What the  _ fuck _ is going on? Did his family knock him out for a surprise trip to Epcot? Do handsy men come with the rooms at this hotel?

But none of what Louis has taken in so far prepares him for what he sees in the mirror.

He catches a glimpse of movement first, and the eyeline is all off.  _ Weird.  _ Louis slowly turns to face the glass completely, and has to dart a hand down to the counter to steady himself.

His mum told him that his body would start to undergo some “very special changes” once he hit his teens, but this is madness.

This Louis – the one in the mirror – is four inches taller. Maybe five. There’s stubble creating shadows on his face, like a sexy overworked doctor in a soap might have. His cheeks are less chubby, more defined. The area under his eyes is hollowed out, and to be honest, could use a dose of one of these  £ 200 moisturizers. But his jawline is sharp and dashing. Louis tests it out by pursing his lips and then stretching them wide again. His honey-brown hair is wild and stiff with product. He’s kept it grown out, but shaped it underneath. Running his fingers through the locks at the front, he can almost work out how he (he guesses?) had worn it the night before: with his fringe blown out to the side, like a pop star.

“Fuck,” he says in an exhale.

But that’s not all. There’s a completely different body carrying him around. Louis’s brain is on the fritz, so he instinctively tries to make his way through touch. His hands run lightly down his  _ (his?) _ upper body, tracing the letters curling across his upper chest before he can even comprehend what they say.

“It Is What It Is,” reads the largest of Louis’s several tattoos, and the sentiment is strangely apt.

Not that he’s had them before, but those are  _ muscles, _ he’s sure. They’re not  _ large, _ by any means, but this is the torso of a guy who works out. His stomach doesn’t boast the six-pack of the football players he’s allowed himself to ogle on TV, but it’s tight and golden. A soft sheen of hair just lighter than what’s on his head has taken up residence in the valley of his sternum and in a line starting beneath his belly button and moving south.

His hands keep moving down, exploring this utterly baffling development. His fingertips hit the waistband of his boxer briefs, and Louis makes the connection between where this activity is going and the contents of those briefs that are pushing visibly against the cotton. Then he experiences two emotions at almost the same time: first, an inexplicable shyness, and second, a powerful wave of curiosity that suffocates that shyness to death. He inhales sharply and tucks his fingers inside the waistband. For reasons he’ll never be able to explain, Louis closes his eyes as he pulls the fabric away from his body. After a moment of adjustment, he lets his head drop forward then wrenches one eye open to take a peek. Not only is everything in order, everything looks to be well above average. Not that he has much to compare it to. 

Obviously, that needs to be investigated further, but there’s still a strange man in this house, Louis doesn’t know how the fuck he got here, and there’s no  _ time. _ He lets go of the briefs, the elastic snapping back into place on his lower belly. He twists his body to look behind him, searching for some article of clothing to separate him from this cappuccino-bearing brute. As he turns to look in the other direction, he’s distracted by one more aspect of his new and improved self. Louis spins around comically, like a cat chasing its tail, trying to see the back of his body in the mirror.

A navy-clad swell makes an appearance. But it’s not a perfect view, so he needs physical confirmation. His palms fly around to clamp on either cheek of his arse, and Louis almost faints. They are certified  _ handfuls,  _ sitting on top of thick and powerful thighs. He says a silent prayer to whatever made him  _ this, _ and adds an extra plea to please let him escape this place alive.

“He’s not answering, the cunt,” says a voice that’s getting closer and closer. Then, more kindly, “Just come out here, love, and we’ll figure this out. I won’t leave you alone.”

_ Well, _ Louis thinks, _  I guess I could do worse.  _

But he can’t concentrate in this place, with  _ that _ right behind the door. Louis’s mind races, trying to recall the ten years he clearly lost in last night’s fitful sleep. Maybe Zayn is a bloody wizard, and cursed him when he realized how desperately uncool Louis would always be. Maybe he’d time traveled, like that Doctor fellow Stan’s dad was always watching on video. All that matters now is finding something familiar, holding onto something that’s recognizably a part of his life. Because right now, Louis doesn’t even recognize himself. 

Louis ties a towel around his waist and pulls another one across his shoulders, like a shawl. He picks through the products on the counter, finding a spray bottle of cologne he plans to wield like the pepper spray. He takes a deep breath, then opens the door, pushing past Mr. Cappuccino and his protests. He strides across the room (as confidently as he can, in his towel ensemble) and tries the door directly opposite the bathroom, pleased to find that it actually is a closet.

Louis shuts and locks the door and flips on the light. He has no time to swoon over the trainer collection displayed with track lighting or the length of perfectly tailored blazers, designed to nip in at the waist and flare out at his best asset. Instead, he yanks open white, knob-less dresser drawers until he finds a few pairs of joggers. He flings his security towels to the ground and tugs the cotton over his boxer briefs. A few more drawers and he’s located his  _ (his?) _ band t-shirt collection. One of the shirts on the top is emblazoned with the words “Catfish and the Bottlemen,” and Louis can’t say he’s ever heard of them. But he puts the shirt on anyway, and sets about picking some shoes, preferably ones for running. About 60 seconds later and Louis has added a gleaming pair of Adidas trainers, an expensive-looking windbreaker, and a plain beanie to his hurriedly styled ensemble. On the top of one of the dressers, he finds a leather catch-all. He grabs the wallet and keys that are laying inside it, and stuffs them into his pocket. He call hear Mr. Cappuccino swearing at his phone while his dealer still refuses to answer. And that reminds Louis…

There, next to the catchall, a white cord plugged into the wall. Louis hadn’t noticed the phone at first, because it’s all futuristic and black and it blended into the material. He pulls the plug from the socket and puts the whole apparatus into his other pocket. Before he can lose his nerve, he unlocks the closet door and dashes to the bedroom one. Looking both ways, he sees what looks like a foyer and a coat rack on one end of the flat. Mr. Cappuccino is right behind him, but Louis has decided that silence is his best option. Ignoring pleas to “babe, just be cool,” Louis intently aims for what he prays is his front door like a diver kicking up to the surface. He doesn’t let himself breathe until his hand is on the doorknob. But when he drags the door open, he feels a hand catch it. Louis whips around.

Mr. Cappuccino and his coffee breath are right in his face. 

“Doll, I can’t just let you leave like this.”

Louis draws himself up to full height. “Then it’s a good thing that I’m a fucking  _ adult.” _

He practically hops out the door, and slams the door shut as hard as he can, nearly catching the other man’s fingers in the process. Louis sees the lifts and runs to them. He nervously glances behind him after he hits the down arrow, but it seems like his  _ date  _ has finally taken the hint. Once he’s safely inside, he pulls the phone out of his pocket. 

He’s never seen anything like it before. It doesn’t resemble that pockmarked flip phone his mother carried around in her purse, and he has no idea how to work it. Feeling like a caveman inventing fire, Louis runs his hands clumsily over the face of thing. Finally he notices the singular flat button at the phone’s base. He stabs at it with his index finger. The display lights up and Louis’s heart soars, but the black void returns just as quickly. He repositions the phone in his hand, swearing at it. This time he touches the button with his thumb, and it magically unlocks. Louis searches for other buttons to press, but there’s no keyboard or call button anywhere, just a display littered with square icons. So he touches the display itself, and something called “Candy Crush” bleeds neon colors onto the screen.

“Fucking shit.”

He pushes the circular button again, and it takes him back to the menu. This time, Louis looks more carefully, knowing that all he has to do is touch the thing he wants. He notices a green phone icon in the bottom row and figures that has to make a call. When he presses it, the screen shows him his contacts, but he doesn’t know anyone named Adele or Alex Turner. (Except for Arctic Monkeys Alex Turner, obviously. Wouldn’t that be something?) After some trial and error, he figures out how to scroll through the list, and makes his way down to the M’s. There, shining like a beacon, are his current favorite three letters.

The lift doors open into a tastefully decorated lobby, and Louis wonders if this version of himself lives at a hotel. The man at a desk is sorting through packages, but looks up when he hears footsteps and calls a friendly, “’allo, Mr. Tomlinson!” when he sees who it is. All Louis can manage back is a nod as he pushes through two sets of glass double doors into the glorious, glorious outside. 

Looking back down at the phone, he taps “Mum,” then holds it up to his ear. The phone doesn’t even ring, it just goes straight to her answerphone message. Louis is all alone in the world.

Louis grounds the toe of his trainer into the sidewalk while he listens to her voice. She sounds so far away, but happy, at least. 

“Hello, loves. You’ve reached Jay. I’m afraid I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave us a message and I’ll get right back to you.”  _ Beep. _

Louis doesn’t know what comes over him, but he can barely get out his greeting through his strangled sob.

“H-hello, mum? It’s me. Me. It’s Louis. I don’t want to scare you, and I  _ think  _ I’m fine. But could you call me back as soon as you can? I’m sure you have the number, right? You’re my mum. Anyway, I’m, um. I’m here. Okay. Love you…bye.”

He hangs up, then taps an “h” into the search bar. Maybe Lottie is around the house. 

But he gets an answerphone message at home too, and this one tells him a more specific story than his mother’s personal.

“Hiya!” a voice that sounds like not quite like Mum or quite like Lottie but perhaps an older version of little Fizzy. “The Tomlinsons can’t come to the phone right now because we’re away on holiday. We’ll be back the first of April. Leave a message!”

Louis hits the angry red “end call” button and a wave of helplessness rolls over him. He doesn’t even know where he is. He has no memory of this street or any of the cafes or pubs he can see from building’s door. Everyone who walks by is a stranger. He thought he’d been confused yesterday, but that was nothing. He is nobody, and nobody knows he’s here. 

When a pop song he’s never heard comes blaring from the device in his hand, Louis nearly jumps out of his skin. He looks down at the phone, which is now showing him a photo of himself with a frankly delectable brown-eyed man. He’s got an arm wrapped around picture-Louis and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. The sight stirs something dormant in Louis, and when he notices the name attached to the photo, he realizes why.

Zayn is calling him.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a pause before Zayn addresses Louis’s somewhat hysterical greeting. 

“...Alright, love?”

_ Okay,  _ he and Zayn are friends who call each other on the phone. He and Zayn do pet names now. It’s whatever. 

“Y-yeah? Yeah, of course I’m alright? Why wouldn’t I be?”

He thinks of Danny Zuko unexpectedly running into Sandy outside school. Rockin’ and rollin’ and whatnot.

“I’m fine, Zayn. Everything is perfectly, 100 percent normal. Quick question, however: Can you tell me how old you are today?”

Zayn laughs breathily. “Mate, my birthday was three months ago. You’ve never been wild about ’em anyway, ’av you?”

Of course. It’s strange to abruptly ask someone you apparently speak to all the time their age. It’s bloody bizarre. But at this moment, Louis’s ability to distinguish between what’s weird and what’s not is rather tenuous. His gut screams at him not to trust Zayn Malik, and god does he regret the one time he overrode that impulse. But right now, the disapproving school stud is Louis’s one and only link to the life that he knows. He can’t let this conversation end until he has a next step. He can’t rest unt–

“I’ve been waitin’ at the coffeeshop for you for 20 minutes, Tommo. I saw you leave with that charming brute last night, but I’d expect at least an apology text from your sex haze if you were going to stand me up.”

Those are the most words he’s ever heard Zayn speak at one time.

“Uhh...right. Right, of course. Be there in a tick.” Louis swivels his head left and right, trying to see to the far ends of the street and  _ hopefully  _ at Zayn sitting at a cafe table, waving at him. No luck. “Where, exactly, are you waiting?”

There’s that laugh again.

“Babe, I’m going to have to start institutin’ a curfew. Our fabulous lifestyle isn’t worth the tragic loss of your brain cells to–” he lowers his voice to a whisper “–drugs and drink.” 

Louis forces a laugh of his own.

“It was a long one, alright,” he says stupidly. His voice rises, slightly delirious. “I did take drugs!”

A older woman passing by with a bag of groceries shakes her head and clicks her tongue at him.

“Now, be a good little boy,” Zayn intones in his best teacher voice, “and come down to the Costa that you can  _ see _ from your  _ flat.” _ He hangs up.

There’s a false start, but once Louis starts down the street in the  _ right  _ direction and gets to the corner, he sees a Costa at the opposite side of the road come into view. 

He tugs the beanie down over his ears a little more, still shaken by the reflection he sees in the glass door. Once inside, he spots an artfully constructed mass of stylish athletic wear in the corner that simply must be the boy – man – he came to see. Should he go to the counter first and order something? Or should he walk straight to Zayn? Do they have a routine? 

The other man is looking down at his phone, so Louis takes the opportunity to hide at the cashier for a moment. There’s enough money in his wallet for his dream order. Louis even uses the loyalty card he finds dangling from his keys. The young woman in the visor tells him that he’s one visit away from a free espresso beverage.

Louis can tell when he sits opposite Zayn with his Belgian Chocolate Frostino (with whip, of course) and a chocolate chip cookie as big as his face that he’s well and truly fucked up. He thought he was used to the withering glares of judgment, but he’s never seen one on this more chiseled version of that face.

While Zayn is staring at Louis’s Diabetes-unfriendly breakfast, Louis is staring at him. The Zayn that Louis knows is beautiful, no one would argue against it, but as a man, he’s breathtaking. The phone wallpaper didn’t even do him justice, not with those dark and intelligent pools of brown underneath soft, thick lashes. His eyebrows are thick and masculine; the stubble is movie-star quality. He’s dressed in a pair of distressed jeans and a long-sleeved black t-shirt with wide neck that scoops low enough to reveal the lines and shadows on his collarbone of what Louis imagines are only a few of his tattoos. He wonders what Mrs. Malik thinks of them. Did he get her permission?

Beanies always make Louis feel sloppy and childish, but Zayn could meet the queen in his, or at least sit for a portrait. Pulled low, it just calls attention to the symmetry and lush sensuality of his face. Louis had been pretty impressed with his own instant puberty experience. Zayn hadn’t needed a rush of hormones to make him stunning, but they’d done the job anyway. 

“So what’d you get up to last night, then?” Zayn asks, with a sly, slight smile.

Louis doesn’t know how to explain what he woke up to barely 30 minutes ago, so he takes a big bite of his cookie to bide some time. Zayn watches silently as Louis chews and attempts to smile, holding up one finger. He swallows, then chases the baked good with a healthy slurp of his Frostino. The sucking sound rings out in the near-empty cafe. He sits back in his chair, then shakes his head slightly and leans as far forward as he can, bracing his elbows on the table. He can feel Zayn’s breath on his face, and it’s weirdly grounding. He wants so badly to tell _ someone  _ what’s going on, but he knows, he just knows in his gut, that this person sitting across from him is not capable of hearing it. 

So Louis leans back again, and attempts to look nonchalant.

“A little of this, a little of that.” He takes another bite out of his cookie. “You know how it is.” Crumbs fly out of his mouth and onto Zayn’s sleeve. The other man brushes them off without taking his eyes off Louis.

“Alright,” Zayn drawls, after a pause. “Alright, fine. You don’t want to tell me about that strapping guitar tech you had fetching you pints, then  _ I  _ won’t tell  _ you  _ about the adventurous couple who found me on Tinder.”

Louis hasn’t the foggiest idea what a Tinder is, but he’s pretty sure he gets Zayn’s drift otherwise. Two people, though? He vaguely understands the appeal, but he’s still stunned into momentary silence. Do people really  _ do  _ that? It must get confusing figuring out who goes where.

“Right, well.” Louis’s head is now swimming. He’s at a table with someone who’s had a threesome. He’s never even kissed anyone, unless you count that time their parents had made him and his second cousin Gracie peck each other on the lips at the age of three. If he knew the word “heteronormative,” he’d be thinking it. 

“Are you flustered, really?” Zayn is laughing at him. “You, with all your multi-player bedroom exploits? That’s rich.”

The creamy coffee concoction Louis is sipping slides down the wrong pipe, and he’s sent into a coughing fit.

“You mean  _ me?” _ he wheezes, when he finally catches his breath.

“Yeah, unless there’s another hot as shit music journalist with perfect taste sittin’ in this coffeeshop.” Zayn sits back in his chair, crosses one ankle over the opposite knee, and shrugs. “Oh wait, there is. Me.”

Louis looks on in awe as his self-satisfied friend – yes, his friend — sips his latte.

“Hot as shit music journalist.”

“Look, don’t let it get to your head anymore than it already has.”

“Me. I write about music. And people read it?”

“Well, no one  _ I _ know, mate, but yeah, I suspect that’s why they haven’t sacked you.”

Louis can’t settle on one of the infinite questions currently racing through his mind so he settles on pursing his lips and exhaling loudly. Apparently, while he was in this 10-year coma or whatever, he somehow achieved his dream job. Well, if he couldn’t be on stage  _ playing  _ music, he’d gladly settle for getting paid to tell people what he thinks about it. It hadn’t worked when he’d handed his parents a “magazine” he’d handwritten on the topic and surreptitiously photocopied in the school office, but his writing must have improved since then.

Zayn takes Louis’ silence to be further evidence of an unusually taxing night, and he’s spot on there.

“Right. So why don’t you continue to sugarcoat this hangover into submission, go home and watch some Netflix or something, and I’ll see you at the gig tomorrow? You’re no good to me like this, you know.”

Zayn starts to pile their trash onto a tray.  _ Thank Christ, _ Louis thinks. He’s relieved to be released from another confusing situation, before he realizes that he can’t go back to that flat he came from. Not while Mr. Cappuccino is still there. Louis again briefly considers telling Zayn what’s happening to him, but something in his heart won’t let him say the words.

Still, he can’t let him leave before he knows what to do next. He racks his brain for a name, someone besides his unavailable mother and sisters he has absolute faith in. Relatives he only sees on Christmas won’t do, nor would pleasant but distant teachers. He reaches the end of his limited mental Rolodex, and the answer is clear.

_ Oh, no.  _

The only other human being that Louis Tomlinson wants to talk to right now probably still isn’t speaking to him. But he has to try.

“Oh, oh! Zayn,” Louis grasps Zayn’s forearm as he rises from the table. Zayn freezes, half in a squat.

“Weird question: Do you know if Harry still lives at home?”

“Harry. Like, the prince? The boy wizard? Who are we talking about here?”

Finally, some references Louis understands. But no.

“No, like, Harry Styles? From school?”

“Harry Styles, the little chubby-cheeked lad a couple years below us?”

Louis nods bravely (he thinks), not flinching from Zayn’s amused reaction.

“Jesus, I  _ hope  _ he’s not still living with his parents. Wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” Louis takes offense at this, but tries not to show it. “Actually, I think he’s in the city, too. I think Stan saw him gig at some hole-in-wall a few months back.”

“Gig? Are you serious?” Louis feels warmth in his belly for the first time since he woke up this morning. “He’s always wanted that.”

“Yeah, nothing to write home about. Probably paid in pints.” Louis considers dumping the liquified remnants of his Frostino on Zayn’s head. “But not everybody’s cut out for the big time.”

The urge subsides when Zayn takes his phone back out of his jacket pocket and starts typing. He scrolls for a few seconds, then turns the screen toward Louis. 

“See? Looks like he’s playin’ tonight in this lineup of no one anyone’s ever heard of.”

Louis somewhat impolitely yanks the phone out of Zayn’s hands so he can pull it closer to his face. There, in the middle of six listed acts, is “Harry Styles.” He doesn’t know that he’s ever been so happy to read two words.

“Where is this?”

“Little dive, The Cross Keys. I’ve only been once or twice. Not usually worth the trip to the dodgy part of Camden, honestly. The whole vibe is so...pedestrian.” 

Louis is already out of his chair.

“Right, got it. The Cross Keys. And Harry’s playing there? Tonight?”

“The internet does not lie. Are you seriously going?”

Louis nods.

“You  _ do  _ realize it’s 11:30 a.m.?”

His leftover breakfast is already in the trash, and Louis is zipping up his coat.

“Oh! Um, yes,” he starts to back away from the table. “But I’ve just realized that I have something to give him. Sort of a...good luck present. Maybe he’ll be hanging around early, you know. Practicing.” Harry, Louis knows very well, believes in practice above everything.

Zayn’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but Louis suspects that he’s already washed his hands of his strangely behaving friend. 

“I didn’t think you two still talked.” This sends a pang through Louis. “But that’s cute that you want to stop by,” Zayn says, smirking. Then, with concern: “Just…take it easy today, alright? You’re sort of freakin’ me out.”

If he only knew. Louis gives Zayn a smile and a salute, then heads for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zayn HAS to be shitty for this to work, but just come with me on this one. I promise I'll fix it!


	5. Chapter 5

The Cross Keys.

Louis stands on the sidewalk, staring up at the sign. The place just opened at midday for the lunch crowd, and he’d spent the previous half hour fidgeting nervously in the cab he hailed  _ (Cheers, me _ , he thinks _ ), _ then taking three tries to successfully charge his platinum card in the reader. 

He peels his eyes away from the pub’s homey logo to look through the window. The tables are all still empty, but there are two men at the bar. Workmen on their break, probably. The dim, yellow lights hang low from the ceiling, and Louis thinks it looks like a old TV show or summat. For a split second, Louis wonders whether the lone bartender drying glasses with a bar mop looks like the type to kick him out or the type to be a lad and look the other way. Then he remembers he’s not underage anymore. Not technically.

The door creaks when Louis pushes it in, and it just adds to the ambiance, as far as he’s concerned. It’s not a fancy establishment by any means. The standing menus on the table are smudged with ancient ketchup stains. The bar stools are mismatched, and of varying sizes. Opposite the bar, Louis spots a small stage, big enough for a 5-piece band at most. Gear is piled up on it, probably belonging to whomever played the night before. He likes it here.

“Hey there, what can I do for ya?”

It’s the bartender, a welcoming smile on his face.

When Louis takes a seat at the end of the bar, the bartender dries his hands on a clean towel before reaching one out to him. “Welcome to The Cross Keys. I’m Niall–”  he gestures to the other men “–and that’s Jeff and Carl.” They grunt, in spectacular unison, not bothering to look up.

“Not great with the first impressions, mind you,” he says conspiratorially, “but they’ll warm to you, so long as you don’t drown out the TV.”

Irish, Louis notes. And probably about the age that he is now. Niall’s blue eyes are warm and his jeans and t-shirt are about as unassuming as the pub. Louis likes Niall too, he decides.

He laughs at Niall’s joke about his fellow patrons, and returns the handshake.

“Louis. Thanks for the introduction.”

“Louis,” Niall repeats. He’s probably the kind of person who repeats names so he’ll never forget anyone he meets. “Louis the stranger, can I get you something?”

“Oh, ahh…just a water, please.”

“One water, comin’ right up.” Niall picks up a glass, flips it, then fills it with the soda gun. “And a menu? Actually, I could just recite it for you, if you like. What we lack in options, we make up for in empty calories.”

“I just ate, actually. But thanks.”

The water request didn’t faze Niall, but this does.

“You’re sure? If you just wanted to come in and use the loo, that’s fine. You don’t have to tip me or anything.” Niall’s eyes widen. “Or are you an undercover health inspector or something? I promise we’re up to code. Though, if you could just give me ten minutes before you come back to the kitchen–”

“God, no, no. Nothing like that, I promise. I’m not trying to trick you. I came in, uh, because I heard about the show tonight.”

Sunshine breaks over the bartender’s face. “Oh, well, why didn’t ya say so? You are an early one, though. You’ve got about eight hours to go.”

“Actually a friend of mine is on the list and I was wondering if you knew where I could find him. Harry Styles?”

“Easy. Harold!”

Louis’s stomach does a somersault. That cookie was a poor choice. “What’s happening? What are you doing?”

_ “Harold!  _ You have a guest!” Niall bellows towards the stage. Looking back at Louis, he says proudly, “He’s not just one of our brightest stars, he’s also a member of The Cross Keys family. Lucky for you, he’s on shift today.” 

Louis had thought he’d have at least  _ some _ time to steel himself for this. But Harry is in this building. In a matter of seconds, he’ll be standing in front of him. Harry, who he hadn’t even had the guts to face when he was 11 years old, who’s no doubt a grown man now. He starts to feel lightheaded, like that time he didn’t eat breakfast before morning P.E.

“For god’s sake, Niall, can you try not to be  _ quite _ so obnoxious?” a deep voice wafts in from the back of the room. “I heard you the first time.”

Louis whirls around to find the source of the sound. Nothing has made sense this morning. But what Louis is looking at right now takes the fucking cake.

He sees him from behind first. Harry – apparently – is squatting with his back to Louis, adjusting the keg that he just rolled in. Still facing away, he stands, and all Louis can see at first are legs. Then Harry’s change in position accommodates – no, encourages – Louis to do a slow pan up of his body. His eyes sweep over scuffed suede boots up to black skinny jeans that cleave to every inch of the man’s lower body, to the bottom hem of a faded black t-shirt just skimming his belt loops and showing off a tiny waist.

“Who’s this?”

It doesn’t get much better above that. Gone is the gangly boy Louis could easily best in any manner of roughhousing. A hint of a belly and fleshy hips press against the threadbare fabric of his t-shirt, as do the outlines of the most prominent of Harry’s four nipples (the source of many private jokes between them), sitting atop a lean but solid-looking chest. Ropey arm muscles dotted with tattoos disappear into his sleeves, one rolled up a little higher than the other. He’s grown his hair out past his shoulders, and the ringlets of his youth have loosened into waves of chestnut brown. The only remaining signs of the Harry Louis once knew are his pretty, full lips and the mirth in his green eyes as he teases Niall about his loudness.

Niall gestures in Louis’s direction. “This is Louis. Big fan ’a yours, apparently.”

Louis feels…he has no idea how he feels. It’s disorienting, this. Harry, grown up. Wiping a hand on his jeans, preparing to shake the hand of this newcomer. All day, he’s felt so lost that he’s barely present, like Louis is his own ghost walking around some novelized version of his life. He’s there, still, ten feet beneath this body that he can’t even begin to fathom. And he wants to scream about how somebody got something wrong. How somebody needs to take him  _ home, _ now.

He has no reason not to freak out. To be freaking out every moment, until he hits his head on a beam or whatever and wakes up in a hospital bed with his mum holding his hand and a nice doctor telling him how long he’d been unconscious. But seeing Harry Styles, the boy next door and his best friend in the whole, wide world…Louis doesn’t feel like screaming anymore. An overwhelming sense of peace floods him, just for a moment. Louis kicks himself for not having that reaction every time Harry walked into his house and tossed his backpack on the floor.

He’d rejected Harry’s friendship, in the end. Louis had broken his heart just to sit at a better lunch table. And sure, a lot of years have apparently passed since then, but Zayn’s words – and Zayn’s entire presence in this life of his, really – are pretty damning evidence that Louis never made things right. He came here in desperation, to reach out for something that he could hold onto. But Louis neglected to consider whether or not Harry would even want to see him. And the confusion that settles on Harry’s face as he gets closer to the bar is not at all comforting.

He still holds his hand out towards Louis, but something snaps shut behind Harry’s eyes. He looks at Niall for half a second, bewildered, then back to Louis’s seat at the bar. 

Louis doesn’t know whether to be thrilled or terrified that Harry’s recognized him.

“Louis Tomlinson?”

Both. He’s both.

“Frighteningly enough, yeah.” Louis tries for a nonchalant laugh and lands somewhere in snort territory.

Harry’s big, calloused hand envelopes his, and Louis might cry. But the tone of his voice doesn’t match the warmth of the contact. “It’s been too long. How’ve you been?”

Louis is unpleasantly reminded of how his mother greeted his father’s sisters, who only dropped by for tea every few years, bringing toys that were for children much younger than him and his siblings and smelled of cheap plastic.

“Good!” Louis will be happy for the both of them. “Good, yeah.” He smiles and nods, pumping Harry’s hand inappropriately. “You?”

“I’m fine,” Harry wrenches his hand away from Louis’s hysterical grip. “Louis…what are you doing here?” Then, dread creeps into his expression. “Is everything okay back at home? Is my family okay? Yours?”

“God, yeah,” Louis answers quickly. “I mean, as far as I know, everyone’s fine. I didn’t come to deliver any bad news.”

_ Nope, I  _ am  _ the bad news. _

Harry relaxes slightly, but doesn’t drop his guard. Because Louis didn’t answer his first question.

And despite this chilly reception, despite the fact that Harry doesn’t know this Louis at all, he still wants to tell him. Louis  _ yearns  _ to just open his mouth and just let it all spill out. He’s about to, really, before Niall interjects to to see, “if any of ya’s wants a pint.”

This time, Louis acquiesces, because it’s the only way he can think of to keep Harry talking. Harry nods in Niall’s direction, too.

“Why don’tcha sit in one of the booths over there and catch up? I’ll bring them to ya.”

Louis likes Niall. Has he mentioned?

Harry raises his arm in an “after you” gesture, and follows Louis to a booth. It’s the kind with the high dividers, so there’s at least the illusion of privacy. Louis settles in as best he can. Niall brings over their pints with a “Cheers.” And then it’s just him and Harry, still wearing an inquisitive frown. He doesn’t have to ask again.

“Right. So, here we are,” says Louis, unnecessarily. “And I know this is a surprise.”

Harry raises his eyebrows.

“For me too, I promise. Anyway, I know I’m disrupting your day and everything. But something’s happened. I don’t think it’s something bad, but it’s something big. And for some reason, I think you’re the only person who can help me.”

“Louis, I don’t know how that could be true,” Harry says, not unkindly. “I haven’t seen you in years, but I obviously know how you’ve been, what you’ve done. I’m sure you have a lot of friends.”

Louis is thrown by the “obviously.” If they don’t talk, how does Harry know what he’s up to?

“So, here’s the thing. I maybe do have friends, but I don’t know them? You know what? I’ll start at the beginning.”

Louis picks up the pint and drains half of it while Harry waits in silence, then lets the stein drop back down to the tabletop with a thud.

“When I went to bed last night, I was 13 years old. I don’t know how or why, but I woke up this morning with  _ this.” _ He scrubs his hand over his stubble. “I was in an apartment I didn’t recognize with a  _ man  _ I’ve never seen before.”

Harry leans back in his seat, one corner of his mouth threatening to quirk up into a smile. Louis is annoyed, but undeterred.

“My mum isn’t answering her phone, and I can barely work this thing.” He holds up his iPhone X helplessly. “I’m…” he lowers his voice to a whisper. “I’m  _ scared, _ Harry. And then Zayn showed me something on the internet that said you played here and I had to come and find you.”

Harry says nothing for a few beats, then he slides his hand across the table and claims Louis’s beer.

“Alright, we’re done with this. I’m going to have Niall brew you some coffee. What’d you take last night? Do you remember?” He’s half out of the booth on a mission to sober Louis up, but Louis grabs his arm and stops him.

“Harry, I’m not high. I’m not, I swear. Look at my eyes.” Harry avoids them. He peevishly looks down at the floor instead, over whatever game he thinks Louis is playing.

“Please. Harry.” 

He looks back at Louis. 

“Look, I can call you a taxi or get you a coffee. Other than that, I’m not sure what it is you want from me. You’re evidently going through something, Louis, but I couldn’t even begin to tell you what that is. You should really reach out to someone who’s actually in your life. Honestly, they’ll be a bigger help than me.”

Harry hands Louis his beer back and turns around, heading back in the direction of his work.

“I’m sorry for what I did to you at the talent show.”

That stops Harry in his tracks.

“And on my birthday. But I should have gone on stage with you and done our song. I shouldn’t have let Zayn scare me into being unkind to you.”

Facing him again, Harry asks, “What made you even think of that?”

“I never stopped thinking about it. It makes me sad all the time. But it was like…like I’d gotten onto a train and it was just going and going. The longer it went on, the harder it was to apologize to you.”

“Huh,” Harry says, sarcasm dripping over his words. “You seemed to get over it just fine, after a while. You were basically the king of the whole school. I don’t know anyone who had a  _ better _ time at school than you, actually.” Louis has no response to this, because, well, he has no idea how it had all actually went down.

Harry takes his silence as cowardice, as he should. “Anyway.” Harry strolls on long legs into the back room and rolls out another keg. “Water under the bridge, right?” It slams into the floor when he rights it, and Louis is lost again.

“Harry,” he offers plaintively. “You’re my best mate.”

“Yeah. I was.” Harry holds out his hand again, not bothering to wipe the grime from the keg off this time. “Good luck to you, Louis.”


	6. Chapter 6

Harry ignores Niall’s pleas to tell him what happened, choosing to retreat to the stillness of the alley behind the pub. He grabs the handles of the next keg, with the intent of heaving it upwards. Instead, he rests half of his weight on the metal drum and lets out a long, healing exhale. 

_ Louis Tomlinson. _

It’s been ages. Harry was a baby when it happened. Harry should be over it. 

Harry supposes that he’s not.

It wasn’t exactly like running into an ex. With most of Harry’s exes, he at least knows why it didn’t work out. Knowing – like,  _ talking _ to a person about why they can’t go on like they are  _ –  _ helps work out that next part. In some cases, eternal avoidance. A nod and a “How are you?” for others. And with Nick, a friendship unlike Harry’s known, since…well.

But Louis. Louis’s part has been played for the last 14 years by a gigantic question mark. He fell out of Harry’s life like it had been rigged with a trap door. Harry was blindsided, and he’d be lying if he said it hadn’t changed him. 

His dad had left when he was so young, Harry was spared that being at all traumatic. He was loved, he wanted for nothing.

So no, Louis isn’t an ex. He was just his friend, but he was also Harry’s first heartbreak. Cynicism crept in when Louis dropped Harry from his life, and honestly, maybe Harry should be thanking him for it. He had to learn sometime not to trust so easily, to leave a few doors closed inside his still gentle but now guarded heart. 

Not that it had made secondary any easier. Their pact forgotten – on Louis’s part, that is – Harry went it completely alone. He didn’t have Louis clearing the way for him, making social in-roads or being there to answer Harry’s hundreds of questions. Harry still learned from him, just not the way he’d expected to.

Watching Louis bloom from afar was like a special kind of punishment designed just for his former friend. Not only because Harry wasn’t a part of it but because he was both awed and repulsed by what Louis was blooming into. From Louis’s 13th birthday party on, it was always the two of them: Zayn and Louis, with the occasional assist from Stan. They were the authority, the ringleaders. An aristocracy followed everywhere by sardonic laughter and a cloud of smoke. 

As his social stock rose, Louis hardened. He did nothing – not even exchange a glance in the hallway – without a withering sense of irony, as if he’d already outgrown every aspect his life. He and Zayn were always tapping each other on the hip or lower back, then lowering their heads toward one another to exchange a whispered comment, probably at your expense. Everything was funny to them, but nothing seemed to give them actual joy. Harry often wondered what it felt like to be so unreachable. He also wondered if Louis had just gotten really good at faking it.

All Zayn and Louis seemed to care about in the slightest was their band. It was a good six months after they forged their friendship over Harry’s humiliation that Happy Days made its debut. With Louis’s poetic lyrics and Zayn’s smokey vocals, Happy Days rose through the ranks from lunchroom busking to rec room birthday parties to school dances. Harry was rarely invited to those birthday parties, but he’d made it to a dance or two. He was disgusted and mesmerized by Louis’s sharpening features, his proud smirk, his habit of laying his palm flat on his stomach when he hit a high note. Harry stood in the back a few feet from his “date” Ashley and her chattering group of friends, holding a cup of punch and hating himself for admiring Louis. Harry didn’t like the way Louis brushed off his mother’s hugs when they ran into the Tomlinsons at the supermarket or the dismissive way in which he answered even the kindest teachers. But he couldn’t help but be proud of his presence up there and the songs that he wrote, echoing with all the emotion that Louis declined to show off stage.

Harry would have forgiven Louis anything if he could just siphon off an ounce of that angry poise. He and Zayn were so universally respected that no one dared say a word about Louis never having a girlfriend or never even holding hands with a girl in the hall. By the time Louis fully came out at 17, his sexuality was an utter non-issue, at least publicly. It was a terrible, scary superpower that Harry’d wished so often that he had.

When Harry could actually be in Louis’s presence without hot tears of shame prickling his eyes, they made their way to a place of polite smalltalk. If he wasn’t too wrapped up in conversation when they passed, Louis would give him an almost imperceptible nod. And if Zayn were locked away in the art room, Harry would even occasionally get an “Alright?” But they never really  _ talked  _ again. Not about backstage or the cupcakes or the birthday song. Even when Louis  _ knew  _ Harry was struggling, he didn’t reach out. And he’d promised to take care of him. He had.

Harry is an adult now, with his own albeit shit one-room flat. His self-esteem no longer relies on everyone he meets liking him, though, to be perfectly honest, most seem to. He has a job that comes with an occasional stage and amp. And he’s had lovers. Some quite good. So it makes no sense to have this hot lump of molten rock sitting in his stomach right now over something that happened when he had spent barely over a decade on his earth. But behind that hardness is a sliver of curiosity. Louis was clearly off his head on something, but still. Why Harry? Why had he come to this pub, neighborhoods away from where the music blogs tell him are Louis’s usual haunts?

Harry tucks away that feeling. The sooner he finishes bringing in the product, the sooner he can jump on stage and rehearse his set. So he wrestles the keg he’s gripping onto its side and maneuvers it into the room. He looks up from his task to find that Niall has come from around the back of the bar and sat himself down on a stool. He has the cup of coffee that Harry had asked him to make Louis, plus one for himself. He gestures to the empty stool and steaming mug next to him. 

“Now, young Harold. You know I don’t get to dole out my natural bartender wisdom as often as I’d like. So why don’t you take a break and tell me what exactly in the hell happened back there?”


	7. Chapter 7

The coast – mercifully – is clear.

Louis couldn’t imagine that the cappuccino brute had stuck around this long in his absence, so he figured it’d be safe to return to his flat.

Where else could he go?

After bidding hello to the same boisterously friendly doorman, Louis retraced his frenzied path from the morning, thanking past him for noting the number on his door as he was leaving. Now, he stands in the middle of his flat’s small foyer, unsure what to explore first.

_There has to be a clue, somewhere. Something here has to explain what happened to me._

He double checks the deadbolt, then gravitates to the framed photos on the opposite wall, in an otherwise polished and impersonal sitting room. He runs his fingers across the simple black frames as he peruses their contents.

Here’s Louis in a black suit, no tie, sitting at a white-clothed round table, leaning back in his chair in laughter next to a lively looking woman in thick black eyeliner who’s doing the same. Here’s Louis standing in the middle of a messy dressing room, flanked on both sides by two men in vintage rock tees and leather jackets. He doesn’t recognize these people, but gathers that it’s significant that he – this other he – knows them. The next photo down, however, sends his heart pin-balling around his ribcage. Louis’s hand flies to his chest in an attempt to catch it.

He’s in football kit, standing in a football field that’s empty of spectators. (Practice, then.) He has on his truest smile, eyes almost completely closed in amusement. There’s a duffel bag slung on his shoulder. And his other arm is wrapped around _Robbie fucking Williams._

“Wicked,” he breathes.

He’s met Robbie Williams. No, he _knows_ Robbie Williams. They’re wearing the same windbreaker. They’re _teammates._ Louis had a dream like this once.

Tearing his eyes away from that happy scene, he continues down the wall, searching photo after photo for meaning. But the only faces he recognizes are Zayn’s and Robbie’s. A DJ here, a stage there. Louis happily pissed. Louis held aloft in celebration by a group of men. (He had a dream like that once, too.) Louis shaking the hand of someone who looks important. Louis with one hand on someone’s Brit award, while another someone dumps a glass of champagne under his collar.

Nowhere, in any of the frames, does Louis see his family.

Coming to the end of his wall of fame, Louis nearly runs into a well-appointed desk. It’s a black lacquered thing, decorated only with the smallest laptop he’s ever seen and a speaker. Louis settles onto the black leather and silver chrome stool, and lifts the lid of the computer. It glows to life, presenting him with a text box for a password. Louis bits his lip, anticipating failure, then remembers that he’s a creature of habit. He types his birthday and his mother’s initials, taps the Return key, and he’s in. A thrill runs through him when he realizes that this new Louis must not be a _complete_ stranger to him.

His wallpaper is a slightly stretched version of the photo with the eyeliner woman. (He must really like her.) Louis fumbles, opening and closing programs until a green, red, yellow, and blue sphere icon finally gifts him with the internet. He’s curious about himself, he is. He needs to know. But before he can think better of it, Louis is typing “harry styles” into the search bar.

There isn’t much to see, unfortunately. Just a few venue websites listing their acts and rosters of student groups.

And something called “Harry Styles Profiles Facebook.”

It’s not a website Louis knows, but “face” sounds promising, so he clicks. He’s brought to a blue and white interface with a list of six or seven “Harry Styles.” The avatars’ faces are too small to discern, so he clicks on the one listed as living in Camden, his profile picture only a lock of hair falling over one green eye. The site rudely tells Louis that he must “friend” Harry for more information (he’s trying), but he can already see a few things. Behind his profile image, a larger version of the artsy extreme closeup, is a rectangular photo of eight or so electric guitars resting in a display holder, probably taken in a shop. Basic profile details don’t tell Louis anything he doesn’t already know. Harry’s birthday is February 1, he’s from Doncaster, he has one sister.

Relationship status: single.

Louis gives himself permission to take offense at this, considering Harry’s loving, open nature – not to mention that smile and that body. He could be playing the field and keeping his options open, but that doesn’t jive with the Harry Louis knew, no matter how magnificently he grew up. That Harry daydreamed often about having a family someday.

Not much else is accessible on the site. Just a few more profile photos – all artistic and none showing enough of Harry for Louis’s liking.

Repositioning his fingers delicately on the keys, Louis takes a breath and types in his own name. The search engine lights up like a Christmas tree, and his head swims.

He can barely fathom most of it. There are bylines upon bylines, mostly for _NME_ , leaning towers of which decorated his room at home. He’s written reviews of albums and concerts, singles and compilations. The next tier of results are mentions in nightlife blogs, usually in regard to Louis’s presence at some post-show club rager. Paparazzi have caught him stumbling out of their back doors – behind someone who’s obviously the main subject of the photo – drink in hand, propped up often by Zayn. Ah, he’s the entourage then.

He clicks until his head throbs. Expensive t-shirts soaked with beer, Louis’s hand half inside the rear waistband of a fit but visibly wasted man as they exit a venue, a “tip” from a reader who claims to have seen Louis and friends stiff a bottle service waitress, gig after gig, rave after slam. He has no memory of any of it. He doesn’t know how to feel when he looks at it now.

It’s like that old film he watched on TV late one Saturday night when his mum was out and Louis was minding the girls. It’s as if an alien took over his body and just went about its business, leaving Louis’s friends and family none the wiser. He wants to be thrilled, to see himself partying, living for music every day – and playing footie with _Robbie fucking Williams._ But those experiences aren’t his. Someone or something _stole_ Louis’s life, and somehow, he needs to figure out how he can steal it back.

It’s too much now, and Louis is so very tired. He reluctantly shuts the laptop, and ambles exhaustedly towards the bedroom.

 _Buzz_.

Louis freezes, listening frantically for the voice of Mr. Cappuccino.

_Buzz. Buzz._

He spots a black panel to the left of his front door, housing a tiny, black and white screen that’s flickered to life. As Louis gets closer, he identifies his doorman. Next to him is a good-natured looking kid in a puffy bomber jacket, smiling wide.

He presses the button that says “Talk.”

“Uh, y-yeah?”

“Mr. Tomlinson! Got a delivery here for you, and he’d like to come up. Liam Payne? Says he works with you.”

“Not _quite_ as such,” the other guy says, farther away from the receiver. “I’m still an intern.”

“Ah, as you like. Your intern is here! Shall I send him up?”

Louis reckons he’s supposed to know him, so what else can he do?

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“Very well.” The screen goes black.

Not 45 seconds later, there’s a businesslike rap at Louis’s door.

Louis opens it cautiously, checking Liam – right? – Liam’s arms for packages. But all he has on him is a thin messenger bag.

“Louis! How’s your day been?” the intern begins, animatedly. “I know that I could have just emailed these transcriptions to you, but honestly, I needed the walk after locking myself in the flat and banging these out. And a job worth doing is worth doing well, right? So I thought I’d just bring them to you.”

Liam unzips the outer pocket of his bag and pulls out a tiny flash drive. Louis’s hand reaches out automatically, and Liam drops it in his open palm. Their fingers barely graze, but the contact is enough to remind Louis of how desperately alone he is. Liam has a kind, open face, with playful brown eyes. And he knows the Louis that Louis doesn’t. He can’t let him leave, not just yet.

With his opposite hand, Louis grasps Liam’s shoulder in what he hopes is a gesture in keeping with their relationship.

Liam’s incredulous face tells him that it’s not. But it’s a done thing, so Louis just goes with it.

“Li! Liam. Do you really have to go so soon? You came all the way over here to bring me these – whatever they are. Can’t you sit down for a bit? I’ll see what I have in that monstrous refrigerator.”

Liam bites his lip, looking off-balanced. Louis’s attempt at hospitality has him suspicious, as if he expected the opposite. He hesitantly steps inside the door enough for Louis to awkwardly reach around him to close it.

“Sure, I can stay for a while. Whatever you need, mate.”

Louis claps his hands together, triumphant.

“Ace. I’ll just grab us a drink. Sit wherever.”

For a rich guy, Louis has a pathetic refrigerator. It’s all sweaty take-out containers and bottled water, plus a few withering wedges of lime. Judging the other him, Louis pulls out two waters and returns to the sitting room. Liam is perched on the edge of a chair, scrolling through his phone. He looks about as relaxed as a you-know-what in church.

Louis chooses the leather chair opposite him and does his best to look comfortable and at home. God only knows if it’s working.

“Right, then. Liam – uh, as you know I’m very busy.” Liam nods his head solemnly. “So can you remind me what exactly it is that you brought over?”

One of his eyebrows arches up, but Liam’s voice stays even. “It’s the interviews you did at Glastonbury. All of them. You sent me the files on Friday and asked if they could be done by Monday. It took all day Saturday and most of yesterday, but the transcriptions are finished.”

“I made you work…all weekend?” Louis is horrified at himself.

“Oh, no, it’s fine! It’s completely fine. Believe me, the grind in the hedge fund game was worse and it wasn’t nearly as rewarding. I’m used to working all hours, I’m just happy that this job actually lets me have a little pride in what I do. It was an education listening to your interviews, truly.”

Louis beams, in spite of himself.

“Well, good. But I’m not going to have that happen again. I hate weekend homework, don’t you?”

“Um…yeah,” Liam brightens. “I always did too.”

Louis figures out through a bit of prompting that the other him didn’t really know Liam at all. It doesn’t speak very well of the fancier Louis, with his clubs and his celebrity friends, but at least it enables this un-fancy version to ask as many questions of the intern as he wants.

He learns where Liam went to school; how the death of a wealthy grandparent enabled him to quit his soulless finance job and follow his true passion. He learns that Liam has only been with _NME_ for two months, but was assigned to Louis after one because of his work ethic and – Liam tries to say this politely – an easy-going personality that processes criticism easily. He doesn’t mind being the oldest intern by far, because he thought he’d be stuck in a cycle of corporate greed for the rest of his life. He loves someone called Kendrick Lamar.

It’s that easy-going personality that calms Louis now, the panic engendered by his internet search subsiding just a bit. He wonders why he never took long lunches with Liam or let him tag along to shows. (Liam’s been dying for that bit.) He was probably just too busy.

The light from the windows casts the room in a deep orange light, and Louis realizes they’ve talked into the evening, mostly about Liam, which thankfully, his guest doesn’t appear to have noticed.

“I should get going.” Liam picks his bag up from the floor.

Louis checks his phone for the time, and has a brilliant idea.

“Actually, do you have to? I’m heading to a gig tonight, new artist to check out. Do you maybe – would you like to come with? We can hit the chip shop on the way.”

Liam lights up.

“That’s, wow.” He runs a hand through his close-cropped hair. “Yeah, I didn’t really have plans tonight. I’d love to come. Thank you, Louis. Where to?”


	8. Chapter 8

In the charged nighttime, the pub is transformed. 

Louis can’t take two steps without kissing shoulders with someone. Girls in jewel-toned tops link arms, teetering on high heels as they make their way to the toilets. A busy busboy clears empties as quickly as he can, pausing only to wipe the sweat from his brow. A group of men in a booth by the back – like he sat in with Harry – whisper as he passes. One pulls back and cocks his head backwards in Louis’s direction, in recognition. He can hear a guitar being tuned over the din. Heat. Sweat. Grit under the treads of his shoes, though the floor was spotlessly clean earlier.

The room thrums with energy. People are drinking, yes, but Louis doesn’t think that accounts for all of it. Everyone here is grown-up, shining. They can do what they like and meet who they want. They have no curfew, and money at least for a few pints and a cab. It’s anticipation prickling at his forearms, making his eyes feel dry. On a night like this, anything could happen. 

Louis has never had a night like this.

“Shall I get us something?” Liam is at his side, looking at Louis expectantly. “My treat.”

Louis knows he’s independently wealthy and all, but buying the drinks seems a boss-like thing to do. He smiles.

“Nonsense, Li. It’s mine. Anyway,” Louis pivots on his heel, turning back to shoot Liam with finger guns. “I know the bartender.”

He wedges into space at the bar that just became free. Niall pockets the tip left by the other patron, then looks up. 

“Ayyyy, you’re back!” He puts his hands on his hips and appraises Louis with a bemused grin.

“I am, indeed. A glutton for punishment, I suppose?”

“Aw, sure, what do you mean?”

Louis fixes Niall with a stern stare. “As if you didn’t hear all that today, standing over here, wiping up spills that weren’t there.”

Someone next to Louis tries to get Niall’s attention. Niall raises a hand to hold him off. He draws closer to Louis, so he can be heard.

“You know me and Harry, we’re actually pretty good friends. He’s only told me a little of what happened between you two when you were kids. I don’t know if I understand it. But I reckon you’re here now, and that’s worth something.” He pulls a pint without Louis asking, and sets it in front of him. “Don’t give up on him.”

Niall moves on; the throng demands it. Louis returns to Liam and hands him the pint.

“Nothing for you?” Liam asks, but the last word is drowned out by a G-chord.

Louis’s gaze is drawn to the stage.

Harry stands there, hair tumbling into his face as he adjusts his capo and tries the chord again.

Louis swallows. Dramatically, like a cartoon character.

Harry is in the same jeans as before, tight as anything and ripped at the knees. But he’s traded his t-shirt for an short-sleeved orangey-red blouse with black and white chevrons, unbuttoned almost to his navel. 

Louis wishes he’d gotten that drink. 

“Hi. Hello.” Harry visors a hand over his eyes and looks out into the crowd. “How’s everybody doing this evening?”

Some light cheers.

“Right. Well, my name is Harry, and I’ve got a few songs for you. Hope you like them.”

Louis sucks in a breath, feeling wholly unprepared for whatever’s about to happen.

Harry clears his throat, then leans into the mic. The song starts quietly at first, his strong, clear voice just above a whisper. It builds nicely in the chorus though. And when Harry really lets go, he closes his eyes.

It’s about a breakup, Louis senses that much. And for as much as he’s clearly grown in technique, Harry’s song has some qualities in common with that – and he hates to think on it – that birthday song he wrote for Louis all those years ago. He still favors candid, direct lyrics; short phrases that don’t plod on and on but instead reach a fist right into your chest and grab your heart. He strums his instrument with confidence, and if Louis squints he can see stubby fingers with chewed up nails on the strings instead of grown-up Harry’s slender digits.

So often, Louis’s mother would burst into tears during what he thought was a happy family moment – a first day of school, a dance recital – and Louis had never known why.

“I’m just proud,” she’d say. And Louis would hold her hand, still baffled by how sadness could seep into a feeling like that.

Watching Harry now, he finally gets it. Louis’s heart is straining against his bones, because Harry is beautiful and talented. But he can feel a seam splintering through it too, because he’s missed it all. He’s missed so much. Harry went from that cherubic dreamer who kept his record collection in perfect order to  _ this. _ But it’s all gone, and Louis will never know how it happened.

It’s not until the first song ends that Louis realizes he’d been blocking out the rest of the people around him, including Liam right next to him. But as the bar breaks out in applause and cheers he realizes what exactly Harry’s done. The crowd had been rowdy and distracted; now, they’re in the palm of his hand.

Liam puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles, then shoots a grin at Louis. 

“This guy’s great. Did we come here to see him?”

“Yes,” Louis confirms. “We came here for Harry Styles.”

*****

Louis’s mind is racing by the end of Harry’s short set. And Liam, albeit completely ignorant of how Louis’s life depends on what happens next, can’t stop talking about Harry’s potential.

“Could we spotlight him on the site, maybe? One of those ‘artists you should know’ kind of things?” Liam gushes, excited as much about being a part of something as he is about Harry’s talent. “And maybe James knows about someone looking for a local tour opener.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he says, distracted.

Louis leads Liam through the crowd, back to the bar. He just needs to get to him.

Louis cranes his neck as he maneuvers them through the sweaty mass. Then there he is: toasting with an elated Niall. Louis can’t help smiling as well, too energized by what he just saw to worry much about what happened between them earlier that day.

He reaches out to tap Harry on the shoulder, but quickly withdraws when he notices the arm wrapped casually around Harry’s waist. It’s attached to a tall, good-looking guy with a dark quiff, who’s laughing at something Niall said. Louis can see the gum he’s chewing through his teeth. And something about this guy’s fingers splayed on Harry’s side makes Louis’s insides feel so cold that he’s about to about-face and push Liam towards the door. 

“Louis! There ya are,” Niall calls. Does this guy  _ ever  _ stop smiling?

The others turn their attention to Louis. The tall guy looks pleasant, but confused. Harry’s expression is completely neutral. They all expect Louis to say something.

“Harry, you were…” All the adjectives he learned in Mrs. Edwards’s creative writing class feel insufficient. “Great. You were really, truly great.”

Harry smiles, small but genuine, at the compliment. “Thank you. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

_ Tell me about it. _

The tall guy removes his hand from Harry’s waist and it extends it towards Louis. “I’m Nick. Grimshaw. And you’re a music writer, aren’t you? You work for  _ NME?” _

“Wha–” Louis recovers quickly. He shakes Nick’s hand and wishes this guy were less polite. “Uh – yeah, yeah. That’s me. Louis. Tomlinson.”

Nick jerks a thumb towards Harry. “Well,  _ she  _ never told me that she had friends in the music business.”

Louis is bemused.

“Could you kindly not talk about me  _ as if I’m not here,” _ Harry says, tweaking Nick’s nipple. Nick shrieks and places his hands protectively over both of them.

Louis feels the need to explain himself to Nick; he has no idea why. 

“He doesn’t – well, he didn’t. We just got back in touch. Today, actually. We went to school together, but it’s been…it’s been a while.” 

Harry is watching him, expression unreadable. Nick, on the other hand, looks delighted.

“In that case, darling, you must have stories. I’m guessing that Harold wasn’t always the slinky sex god we see before us today.” 

Clearly blushing, Harry attempts to deflect attention by pinching Nick’s cheek. “Some people aren’t lucky enough to be as naturally adorable as you are.”

Nick bats Harry’s hand away, then takes belated notice of Liam, standing just over Louis’s shoulder, just happy to be included.

“And who’s this strapping lad?”

Louis is too busy tracking Nick’s reaction to Liam’s open smile and hearty handshake to note Harry’s. He didn’t like the way it made him feel, Nick’s arm possessively caging Harry into his side. But he likes this even less, that Nick’s attention is now fully on Liam; he’s not so subtly looking him up and down, one eyebrow cocked upward. He’s flirting. An instinct to protect Harry builds inside Louis. Who the hell does this guy think he is?

_ That website said Harry was single. _

Nick absentmindedly cards a hand through Harry’s hair, still talking to Liam, asking him what  _ exactly _ he does at the magazine.

_ But maybe it’s wrong. Maybe this guy’s his boyfriend and he just hasn’t changed it. Or maybe he’s his date.  _

_ Or maybe Harry isn’t even into guys. He never told me that he was. _

Louis doesn’t know what to make of any of it. It wasn’t exactly common in Doncaster for guys to touch each other like this – affectionately and casually. And though he hasn’t broken physical contact with Harry this entire time, Nick  _ definitely _ looks like he’s into Liam. Being an adult is confusing. Louis drinks deeply from the beer Niall has handed him.

If he’d been watching Harry though, he would have seen his brow un-furrow when Liam introduced himself to Nick as “just the intern.”

*****

Louis is warm, like a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie.

He loves his new friends. Even Nick, with the hands. 

Niall presses a fresh beer into his palm.

_ Niall. Niall is my favorite. _

Nick’s curiosity and Niall’s congeniality won out over Harry’s severity, and Liam and Louis joined their party. The awkwardness became lesser with each drink, eventually tapering off into nothing. Louis tries like mad to hang onto his skepticism about Nick, but what can he say? The guy’s a riot. 

“And  _ then,” _ Nick howls, “he actually  _ snatches  _ the sandwich out of my hand. I’d already eaten half of it.”

“I was hungry!” Harry protests.

“But you don’t like egg and cress. You hate it, famously.”

“Well, that’s why you should never have convinced me to go ‘camping’ outside of our dorm with just a bottle of vodka and no good snacks,” Harry shrugs.

Louis’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He unlocks it with his thumb (he’s getting better at this) and is inundated with photos from Zayn.

_ “Where are you, you complete fucking loserxxx” _

Louis barely glances at the snaps – Zayn and a group of strangers cheers-ing the camera, a cocktail waitress laughing – before locking and pocketing his phone.

He looks up to find Harry watching him intently.

“One of your fancy friends?” He only slurs a bit, on that last word.

“’S nothing,” Louis frowns. “But you know what’s  _ very  _ important?” 

Harry shakes his head and leans in closer.

“...that Nick and Niall hear about that time I was home sick from school and you raided Gemma’s dance costumes to come cheer me up.”

Harry launches off his chair and covers Louis’s mouth with both hands. “ _ Lou, _ don’t you dare.”

If they were in his parents’ basement ten years ago, Louis would have licked Harry’s palm to gross him out. Tonight, in this bar, he goes still at the contact.

Realizing what he’s done, Harry settles himself back in his stool, coloring slightly. “That was between, you, me, and Britney’s  _ In The Zone  _ album.”

They smirk at each other, savoring the memory.

Louis looks to his left to see the other three guys engaged in some passionate debate about who cares what, and decides to risk it.

“Harry, listen,” he says hurriedly. “I know things aren’t okay with us. I know that I was terrible, and I know more than anything that you didn’t deserve it.”

Harry holds up a hand. “Louis, you don’t have to, honestly. You just surprised me today. We were kids. ”

“Yeah, and I should have known better,” Louis says fiercely. “I’m not asking you to forgive me or anything. But you are seriously so talented. You are. And the pub is great, but like…you should be playing where more people can hear you. And I think I can help you. Me and Liam can.”

Harry’s eyes flash, and his tone drops severely. “Look, I don’t need any favors, okay?”

“This isn’t charity, Harry! I think you’re good, and you know that I know what I’m talking about.”

Harry opens his mouth to argue.

“Okay, well,  _ people _ think I know what I’m talking about. And that could open some doors for you.”

_ Why is he so fucking noble? _

“This doesn’t have anything to do with you. Not that I know you, I mean. Or because I feel sorry for you. Because I don’t, by the way.” Louis gestures vaguely. “You’ve got it pretty good here, Curly.” (Harry’s “Lou” left the door open for that one.)

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, but he’s stopped arguing.

“Look,” Louis says, diplomatically. “We’re drunk.  _ I _ am really drunk. Can you just promise me that we’ll talk about it when we’re not?”

Harry stares at him for a long time, looking for something. He either finds it or he doesn’t, because just when Louis is about to give up...

“I’m off tomorrow.”

Louis slaps his hand on the bar in victory. “Excellent. It’s a date."


	9. Chapter 9

Louis presses his forehead against the window of the cafe, looking as far as he can in both directions.

No sign of him yet.

He huffs a sigh, and turns back to the menu the waiter put in front of him, hoping it’ll do. Harry’s favorite foods used to consist of toaster pastries and Cadbury Flakes he’d carried in his pocket until they’d slightly melted. That’s probably changed, right? So he used one of the several hours he had to agonize over this meeting to find a lunch spot that ticked every special diet box, just in case one of them applied to Harry. There’s even an entire gluten-free section, though he’s not entirely clear on what gluten is. His bases are covered.

“Can I get you started with a drink?” 

“Oh! Um…I’ll just wait for my friend.”

The waiter nods and hurries efficiently away. Louis straightens up his place setting, making sure the bottoms of his utensils all line up. Properly. He’s just about got it perfect when he hears the chair across from him being dragged back.

“Hi,” Harry says, friendly but with a hint of trepidation.

“Hey,” Louis says softly, still not quite believing this is all actually happening.

He takes in Harry’s lazy Sunday look. His hair piled on top of his head, black Ray-Bans serving as a headband. He has an iced coffee in his hand, nearly finished. And...

“Oh my god, is that the  _ same  _ shirt?” 

Harry frowns and looks down at his body, then brightens. 

“You remember this?”

It’s Harry’s Rolling Stones t-shirt. His stepdad had bought it at a concert that Harry had  _ begged  _ to go to. But it was date night, and he was just a little too young. Robin had brought him back a souvenir as a consolation. And though Harry had cried himself to sleep that night at Louis’s house, he proudly wore the shirt to school the following Monday.

“Yeah, I remember it. And I reckon it’s the same one, since it’s about to disintegrate off of your body.”

Harry fingers the safety pins holding the side of the garment together. “It’s vintage,” he declares, with a smile.

Louis laughs, feeling comforted in a way he can’t explain. He wonders, even, if Harry may have worn the shirt on purpose.

Harry sits down, slinging his shoulder bag over the back of his chair.

“So,” he begins cautiously, “you seem better. Than yesterday. Did you get everything figured out?”

_ Well  _ that’s _ a loaded question. _

“It was...a weird day, yeah,” Louis answers. “I’m really sorry that I put that on you. It wasn’t fair.”

Harry is looking at him seriously, a crinkle of concern settling between his eyebrows. It’s distracting.

“I think my life is a bit strange, actually. And it just caught up with me? But thank you. For asking and all that. I’m back to myself though. Whether that’s good news or not, I don’t know,” Louis chuckles awkwardly.

Harry doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he lets it drop anyway. All said, he’s been miraculously cool about this whole thing. So much for the hyper-emotional kid who could never hide a feeling from his best friend.

Still, every second is precious, in Louis’s eyes. Harry could choose to walk out that door any moment, and there is no Plan B. So he quickly gets them back on track.

“It’s not why I wanted to talk to you though, I promise. Look, Harry–”

The waiter dips in to fill Harry’s water glass. “How are we today?”

“Doing well, thanks.” Harry scans the front of the menu quickly. “Could I get an iced latte?”

“Of course.”

Harry rewards the waiter with a dazzling smile. His teeth are straight and white, and last night’s stubble dusts his upper lip. But somewhere, at the very core of it, is the same smile that got him an extra cookie every time he and Louis stopped at the neighborhood bakery with their pocket change.

“And you, sir?”

Louis tears his gaze away from Harry’s grin. “Oh, um,” he looks at the expectant waiter. “That sounds good, yeah. I’ll have the same.”

As their server heads to the coffee bar to get their drinks started, Louis eyes Harry’s melting iced coffee.

“You’re one of those coffee addicts then? Can’t talk to anyone in the morning until you’ve drained a whole pot?”

Harry scoffs in good-natured shock. “Excuse me,  _ Lewis _ . You showed up at my job yesterday, still riding the previous night’s high, claiming to have  _ time-traveled, _ and my caffeine intake is the problem?”

“My mum always said it stunts your growth.”

Harry smugly straightens up in his chair. “Then by that logic, you must’ve had a lot more than me.”

“Fine, I deserved that.” Louis raises his hands in surrender. “This is my treat, you can get buzzed on as many coffee products as you want.” 

Right on cue, the waiter sets down their glasses. Harry smirks at Louis and takes a gigantic sip.

“Thanks for your permission, mum.”

“Can I get some food started for you?”

“Actually mate, we haven’t even looked yet,” Harry says with contrition.

Louis could probably sing and dance the entire menu at this point.

“Do you mind giving us just a few more minutes?” Harry asks.

“Of course, sir. Take all the time you need.” 

“Lovely, appreciate it.” 

Harry holds eye contact with the waiter until he turns around; only then does he start to inspect the menu. Louis is a little bit in awe.

“You’re good.” 

Harry looks up. “Pardon?”

“You’re good. With people. That waiter is charmed. Just like everyone at the pub was charmed last night.”

“It’s called being polite, Louis. It’s not that hard.”

“No, bullshit. First of all, being polite  _ is  _ hard for some people, based on my tube ride to get here. Secondly, it’s more than that. You connect. You make people feel...significant.”

Harry flips the menu over and shrugs. “It doesn’t hurt me at all to be nice to people. And this guy works in the service industry. I know how that goes. I know how demeaning it is when people look through you.”

Louis wants to say he understands, but he doesn’t. Aside from babysitting his siblings, he’s never worked a day in his life. And somehow, he has a thriving career. Funny, that.

“Okay, so that explains why you’re best friends with this guy, eight minutes after you walked in the door. But that doesn’t explain how you captivated a pub full of drunken morons with just an acoustic guitar. That’s not being polite, Harry.  _ That’s  _ a talent. That’s why Liam and I were both so impressed.”

Harry twists the paper wrapper of his straw around his pointer finger.

“And you’re sure that it has nothing to do with us? Our history?” He looks into Louis’s eyes with as much intention as he did last night. “Because if you feel guilty about something that happened before either of us successfully completed puberty, you can just send my mum some flowers or something.”

“I  _ told  _ you, that has nothing to do with this. Do I feel awful about that birthday? Of course I do. Should I have begged for your forgiveness first thing the next morning? I should have, Harry, believe me, I know that now. But I was 13 and  _ stupid _ and my priorities were ordered for shit. Someday I’ll figure out a way to make that up to you. I’d get on the phone and send flowers to your house right now if that would convince you that I’m not here in this cafe talking to you about music because I want to clear my conscience. Some bloggers say I don’t even have one, so there’s that.”

Harry snorts, softening slightly.

“Right?” Louis sees the door opening, so he presses forward with the joke. “I’m the corporate hack trying to scrub the soul out of music. So see, how could I ever do anything out of the goodness of my heart? I invited you here, Harry, because I want to be the one who discovered you. You’re just a meal ticket to me, okay? Does that make you feel better?”

“You’ve always been,” Harry balls up the straw wrapper and launches it at him, “so full of shit.”

“I know,” Louis says, triumphantly. “And that’s why I’m the best.”

“Have you decided?” The waiter addresses Harry, to Louis’s complete lack of surprise.

“I think so. Louis, after you.”

“I’ll have a cheeseburger. Nothing on it, please.” Harry gives him an odd look, probably because it was Louis’s daily lunch order in primary school.

“And I’ll have the turkey and brie wrap please.” Harry takes Louis’s menu from him and hands them both to the waiter. Louis notes silently that he’s not a vegetarian or a vegan, which makes this all marginally less complicated.

“Very good, I’ll have those right out to you.”

Determined to recapture the previous moment, Louis gets immediately back down to business.

“So I have some connections, yeah? I have people who will listen to what I ask them to listen to.”

“Well, look at you.”

“Kindly shut up. I’m not bragging, I’m just telling you what’s possible. Do you have a demo?”

Harry’s almost sheepish when he answers. “We’ve just recorded some gigs at the pub, and I’ve laid a few tracks down on Bandcamp, but just from my flat. They’re on Soundcloud, but they’re a bit embarrassing to be honest. The sound quality is utter crap.”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “When did you go to band camp?”

“When did I–? Louis, Bandcamp. The program?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Bandcamp, love it. You’ll need something a bit more high quality before I can start sending it around, though.”

Fortunately, Liam keeps meticulous notes of Louis’s day-to-day in a shared calendar. He’s basically reciting those notes now, with all the conviction he can muster.  _ Please, let me sound at all like I know what I’m talking about.  _

“Three or four killer studio tracks ought to do it. Liam already texted a woman who owes me a favor, so we may have a lead on a studio. Do you know what you’d want to lay down? I like the one you opened with last night. It’s got a nice feel to it. Happy sad.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down,” Harry interjects. “I can’t afford studio time.”

“Don’t worry about that right now. My only request for now is that you let me listen to more songs. Will you send me whatever you have? However rough it is. And then we’ll think about what happens next.”

Harry looks out the window for a few seconds, expression unreadable. Then he turns back to Louis. 

“It’s just, after more than ten years, this person – you – drops back into my life and just starts granting wishes? I’m trying to be chill about this, Lou, but it’s a lot to process. And it’s moving really fast.”

Louis feels the air between them change. Harry is freaking out, the door is closing again. He scrambles.

“I know it’s fast, it’s just that Zayn told me that he knows of a few acts looking for spring tour openers and–”

“Zayn.”

_ Fuck.  _

“Are you…did you tell Zayn Malik about me? That I’m your project?” Harry’s jaw tightens around the words.

“No, Harry, I–”

“I knew you were still buddy-buddy. I mean, that’s all anybody could talk about back home, how the two of you made it big together. But I thought you’d know…I thought it would be pretty obvious that I don’t want to be anywhere near him.”

“We didn’t talk specifically  _ about  _ you, Harry, we were just talking about music and work, you know? He ignored you in school, and that was not okay. I respect you not wanting to see him. I don’t blame you.”

_ “Ignored?” _ Harry laughs, without mirth. “I  _ wish  _ he’d ignored me. In fact, I think it’s interesting, Louis, that you’ve only apologized for your birthday. I suppose you’re not sorry for the rest?”

“The rest?” Louis is floundering. “Harry, I, fuck, I’m so so fucking sorry. I don’t remember everything I did, and I can’t tell you why because I don’t  _ know. _ You don’t have to accept my apology, and you can think I’m complete garbage. Forever. Just don’t ruin your chances at a break because  _ I  _ suck.”

“A cheeseburger, plain. And the turkey brie wrap.” The waiter presents their lunches with a flourish. “Enjoy, gentlemen.”

“Actually,” Harry stops him, “could you box mine? I have to run.”

_ No, no, no, no, shit. _

“Harry, please, just…Ahhh, fuck. I fucked up. Please don’t leave.” 

“This feels weird, Louis. I don’t know what’s going on, but it feels really weird.” Harry stands up, pushing his chair back with his thighs. He digs into his bag, then throws a couple of notes down on the table.

As quickly as he can, Louis pulls a pen out of his pocket and scrawls something on the napkin the waiter just brought with his meal. He thrusts it out to Harry.

“That’s my email. Please just let me hear some more, and see what I can do. If it’s a disaster, it’s a disaster, and I’ll leave you alone forever. But you deserve this chance, Harry. Please don’t let me be the reason you don’t take it.”

Harry takes the napkin from Louis’s hand and puts it in his pocket.

“Maybe.”

The waiter returns with his wrapped up lunch. Harry takes that too, and walks out into the cold, sunny afternoon.


	10. Chapter 10

“Hello.” Zayn waves his hand in front of Louis’s face. “Earth to Tommo.” 

No email from Harry yet. So Louis reluctantly turns his attention from his rather disappointing home screen back to the situation at hand.

The VIP section of the venue’s balcony is teeming with both people and pretentiousness. He doesn’t think he’s seen a sincere smile since he and Zayn had arrived 20 minutes ago. The irony amongst the sloppily but expensively dressed clientele is palpable. They’re here, but they’d leave in an instance if a hipper option became available. 

Zayn watches Louis methodically peel the label from his beer, and frowns, Louis’s iPhone laying next to the drink on the high-top table, set to maximum brightness so he doesn’t miss a notification. Zayn had texted him the address of the gig not long after Harry’d ditched their lunch, along with an “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I told them you’d be there” warning. And though Louis doesn’t know who “them” is and would rather be in his flat, alone, trying to put the pieces of his life together via Google, he hadn’t wanted to risk Zayn becoming even more suspicious. Plus, this was research of a kind too. He could learn something here that could help Harry – if Harry ever decided to speak to him again, that is.

“Seriously, what’s your problem, man?” Zayn prods, gesturing with his own drink. “You knew we were expected to be here tonight. We’ve got the best seats in the house, an open bar. I know the crowd is a little more scene than you like, but this was the deal.”

_ The deal. _

A question that he’s meant to know the answer to dies out on Louis’s tongue, unasked. He manages a small smile.

“I just haven’t been feeling well, that’s all,” he answers. “But I’m here. I’ll be cool, I promise.”

Zayn taps the neck of his beer to Louis’s, still full and soaking its cocktail napkin. “Alright, then cheers.”

“Gentlemen!” 

Louis can’t help it. A giggle escapes his lips, and he knows instantly that it was a mistake to let it.

But he’s looking at a man who’s old enough to be either of their dads, dressed in ripped, acid-washed jeans, a faux-vintage Cheap Trick shirt that is a size and a half too small, and a black denim vest covered in badges. Shoe-polish black bangs dust his forehead, and he wears a plaid bow tie on his otherwise bare neck as if it were a choker. Timberland boots polish off the chaotic look.

Zayn shoots Louis a censorious look, then makes his way around the table to shake the man’s hand. His confused expression melts into an eager smile as he accepts Zayn’s greeting. 

“Ben, hey. It’s great to see you,  _ love  _ that vest,” Zayn oozes.

Ben smooths his hands down the front of it self-consciously, though Zayn’s compliment seems to bolster his confidence. 

“Cheers, man. The guys picked it out for me at Topman.”

“Louis.” Zayn is slow and deliberate, as if he’s speaking to a child. Which, of course, he is. “I’d like you to meet Ben. He’s Ricochet's manager.”

“Oh. All right, sir?” Louis responds. “Really, top-notch,  _ wicked _ vest. I’m Louis. As Zayn just said, I guess. Thanks for having us. This is really…something.”

Ben smirks proudly, clearly impressed, for some reason, by the visibly jaded crowd.

“The agency put out the call to some influencers. We’re guaranteed two Instagrams and one Snap story a piece. With any luck, we may even trend.” 

_ Ooooookay. _

“It’s a big night, boys,” Ben continues. “Big. And you’re a big part of it.” He lowers his voice and pitches awkwardly into their personal space. “So we’re all set, yes? My assistant Venmo’d you half the payment earlier today, and the rest will come through once the pieces go live.”

Now Louis  _ really  _ feels guilty for laughing at him. If this guy is paying them, he must be one of their bosses. No wonder Zayn freaked.

Zayn puts an arm around Ben, all affability. “We are good to go. I’m submitting the gig review, then Louis will promote the hell out of the single when that drops. Ricochet is going to be playing stadiums in no time.”

“I have no doubt. Because I believe in them,” Ben says, somewhat unconvincingly, “but also because you two came highly recommended.” Someone calls out his name; Ben turns around and waves.

“I’ve got to go say hi to some people, but you boys enjoy yourselves. Whatever you want, on me. I’m looking forward to seeing those pieces.”

He sticks out his fist to Zayn, who taps it with his own. He does the same to Louis. Then Ben heads over to another table; a girl with bleached blonde hair rolls her eyes as he passes, not at all discreetly.

Louis has a lot of questions, and no way to ask them without looking like a complete idiot.

“I don’t know about his dress sense,” he attempts, “but Ben is pretty nice, as bosses go. ‘Whatever we want,’ and all.”

Zayn actually guffaws.

“If we start thinking of these vultures as our bosses, we’re fucked.”

Louis stares at him, perplexed.

“Look, Louis –  _ we’re  _ the ones in charge here.  _ Ben  _ needs  _ us, _ not the other way around. There are plenty of other wannabe acts that could use a glowing review from either of us. We’re in the driver’s seat, darling. He wants what  _ we _ have.”

Zayn winks at the compact bus boy who’s come to clear their empties. The boy grins lasciviously as he backs away.

“And he’s not the only one.”

Louis feels sick all of a sudden, watching aghast as the pieces fall together.

“But paying for a good review – isn’t that illegal? Or at least…wrong?” 

“You take too many drugs, Louis. And that’s coming from me.” 

“I’m serious,” Louis pleads. “Couldn’t we get caught?”

“We haven’t yet,” Zayn says, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards. “Do you honestly think anyone  _ cares? _ And why the sudden crisis of conscience anyway?”

Louis can’t find an answer to that.

“You couldn’t afford a  _ third _ of that gorgeous flat on your actual salary, love _.  _ Music journalists are underpaid across the board. A lot of us moonlight. You and I, we’re just satisfyin’ a demand. The business is a moral shithole anyway. Might as well get paid.”

The lights go down at that point, and a tepid cheer runs through the club.

Ben is on stage. He’s added a dark pair of aviators to his look, despite the fact that they’re inside.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between.”

Louis cringes.

“This. Is.  _ Ricochet!” _

The black curtain lifts; and Louis swears he sees Ben trip over a wire on his way back to the wings.

From the very first note, the set is awful. Ricochet is actually a fitting title for the band, since they’re all over the place. They can’t seem to decide if they’re making pop, punk, or electronic music. The amps are too loud, the lead singer is off-key more half the time. And the bass player who raps is just a no all around. Louis tries, he really does, but he can’t find anything genuine in either their performance or their songs. The band is as painfully self-aware as their humiliating manager, trying so desperately to incorporate every possible trend into their act that they have no discernible point. It’s demoralizing, is what it is. 

_ They _ can’t  _ be enjoying this, _ Louis thinks.

The audience is indifferent, though the manic lead singer doesn’t seem to notice. Louis looks around their section and watches the crop-topped “influencers” dutifully holding up their phones to capture the disaster for their followers, probably softened with a fawningly positive caption in thanks for the free booze.

Zayn leans over and whispers in his ear, “This is god awful, isn’t it? No wonder they pitched us so hard.” He doesn’t wait for Louis to respond, just laughs and resumes filming the set on his phone for later use.

This isn’t what Louis had imagined, when he and Harry drank soda after soda on his back porch and dreamt of being musicians. What they  _ loved  _ came first and foremost, whether that was a cheesy pop radio single or the most well-respected album from a Rock & Roll Hall of Famer. All that mattered was their passion, their opinions. In 2018, Louis’s opinion is up for sale. And whoever Louis is now didn’t see any problem with that.


	11. Chapter 11

Louis reluctantly wakes up the next morning, feeling like hell. He deserves it.

They’d taken full advantage of the open bar – Zayn, drinking imported beer after imported beer because he was having a great time, and Louis doing the same because he was miserable. The bombshell about how he really made his living added new depth to his existential crisis. Louis wanted to be drunk, so he wouldn’t have to think about it. He didn’t want to remember trading handshakes and false compliments with the band when Ben brought them up to the VIP after their set. Unfortunately, he has the alcohol tolerance of adult Louis, so he’d really had to work for it.

Because of that Louis’s iron stomach, this one isn’t sick, exactly. But he does feel dull and useless. And distinctly like a liar.

Louis groans for the benefit of the thin air around him as details come back into focus. He’s pretty sure he engaged Ricochet's lead singer (Ricky? Randy?) in a lengthy conversation about why _ American Idol  _ would never produce a better winner than Kelly Clarkson, no matter how long it was on, to Ricky/Randy’s complete indifference. Zayn had finally pulled him away to go to the toilets just to shut Louis up.

Reaching for the charging dock on his nightstand, Louis gingerly (just in case) rolls fully onto his side. He unlocks the phone, turning the brightness way down so his eyes can adjust. Touching the “Mail” icon, he mutters a “Come on.”

There it is. 1:15 a.m. From: Harry Styles. Subject: Songs. Some of the fog in his head clears away.

Louis opens the email. The message is brief and business-like. 

_ Hi Louis. _

_ I just want to be clear that I haven’t decided yet that I want to work with you on anything. But I’ve attached a couple of files here of new songs that I haven’t uploaded anywhere. What’s the point of making music if you won’t let people listen to it, right? _

_ Harry _

Hope surges in Louis’s heart. He starts to download the first track to his phone, before realizing he has better options than its tiny speaker. All his hesitancy gone, he swings his feet to the floor and pads swiftly into the living room to his waiting laptop. Opening the email again there, he moves the cursor over the first file. He likes the title: “Just a Little Bit of Your Heart.” 

Louis turns the volume higher, figuring that in a flat this size, his neighbors are too far away to hear. Then he closes his eyes and just listens.

It’s so excruciatingly intimate that Louis has to stop himself from pausing the media player immediately. Without any production to speak of, it’s just Harry singing right to him through the speaker – exactly like his birthday song, yet so, so different. This song, here in the present, starts with a soft strum of guitar and a lilting chorus of “oh-oh-oh-oh-oh’s.” It’s about wanting someone – whatever they have to give, even if it’s not much. Wearing pajama pants he doesn’t remember buying in a flat he doesn’t really know yet, Louis feels this yearning keenly. “ I heard a little love is better than none,” Harry sings.

It’s good. He’s so good. Louis is overwhelmed all over again. Because it isn’t just the stage presence; some people can coast by on their charm, but the music itself will always reveal what’s lacking. And Harry doesn’t lack pure, raw talent.

Louis needs a moment before he opens the second file, so he heads into the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water and a leftover kebab from a messy stop he and Zayn had made early that morning. Returning to the living room, Louis stands to eat the cold meat, in an effort to keep bits from falling into his keyboard. 

As prepared as he ever will be, he clicks on the next file. “Where Do Broken Hearts Go?” is up-tempo and more pop than the first track. It’s almost anthemic, which is a difficult feeling to achieve with just one person singing. But Harry is full-on wailing in this one, showing the strength and control he and Louis had always admired Queen’s Freddie Mercury for. (How they studied “Somebody to Love.”)

This song, Louis gathers, is about someone who made a mistake that they’re desperately trying to reverse. Harry can’t  _ know _ ...but still, the coincidences are freaking Louis out.

But then he’s hit by an even stronger realization. Ever since this  _ thing  _ happened, the only times that Louis has felt even a little bit sure of what he should be doing is when he’s been either with or going towards Harry. He has no idea how to get out from under this pay-for-play business that he and Zayn have been running. He can’t get himself back home. But Louis can help Harry. He knows he can. Maybe that’s even why he’s here.

Rubbing his hands together and releasing even more shredded lettuce onto his hardwood floor, Louis moves back towards the desk. Plopping down on the stool, he hits the “Reply” arrow and begins typing.

_ Harry!!! _

_ These songs are sick! I’m so glad you decided to send them! You should be huge and I still want to help. Please let’s talk more about it. Anytime you want!! _

Louis adds his cell number next to his signature, even though he’d given it to Harry that night at the pub, then signs his name and hits “Send.”

*****

It’s mid-afternoon when Harry finally replies. Not wanting to be alone with his thoughts, Louis is flipping (again) through the hundreds of channels he gets on his LED TV when his phone vibrates loudly against the glass coffee table. He almost dislocates his shoulder reaching for it.

_ I worked the day shift, so I’m free tonight. You can come to mine if you want. _

“Yes,” Louis breathes, closing his hand into a fist.

Now, for the reply – he doesn’t want to come on too strong…

_ Yes!!! Just text me the address and what time and I’ll be there. You won’t regret this, Harry!!! _

Louis looks over the text before sending. Biting his lip, he scrolls backwards and deletes one exclamation point from after the “Yes.” There. Perfect. Sent.

*****

Four hours later, Louis is standing in front of Harry’s building, stomach churning with the suddenly vital importance of it all. It’s dinnertime. And though Harry’s message had said nothing about eating, Louis has brought a large sausage and peppers pizza as a peace offering. He presses the button next to Harry’s flat number and holds his breath.

After what seems like an eternity, the door buzzes in answer, and Louis leans against it until it opens.

The lobby of Harry’s building couldn’t be more different than his own. There’s no doorman present, or even a desk where he should be. Instead, there are stacks of neglected newspapers and small piles of dead leaves carried in on the wind every time the door opened. Harry is on the fourth floor, but there’s no stainless steel elevator, so Louis starts up the steep staircase. And by the time he reaches his destination, his thigh muscles are shaking and it’s becoming difficult to hold the pie steady. 

The hallway smells of Indian food (as did the stairwell), but that’s not the only sign of life. The walls and doorways are thin. Walking past one door, Louis can hear – as clear as day – a couple bickering about whose turn it is to take out the recyclables. Through another door, he can hear Bob Dylan’s “Dark Eyes.” Work boots with muddy soles rest on welcome mats. A delivery girl passes by with her insulated bag and gives Louis a shy smile. People live here.

He takes a deep breath when he realizes that the next flat he’ll come to is Harry’s. 

His door is open, just a crack. Harry must have done that when Louis buzzed up, and for it, Louis says a silent prayer of thanks. He’d been dreading the formality of knocking, as accustomed as he is to just waltzing through the Tomlinsons’ unlocked door. It just felt  _ wrong.  _

Using the knuckles of his free hand, Louis inches the door inward, calling a “Hello?” as he does. 

“Just a second!” Harry shouts from somewhere inside. Louis hears a tap turn off, then Harry is in front of him, drying his hands in a dish towel.

“Cleaning a up a bit,” he says, taking the pizza out of Louis’s grasp. And so what if Louis gawks at the size of his hand and the ease of his grip? “You didn’t have to bring anything.” 

His choice of words is ambiguous, and Louis can’t read his tone. Was this a polite “You shouldn’t have,” or Harry’s indirect way of saying that this wasn’t meant to be a social call?

Louis shrugs, just as ambiguously (he hopes). “Figured pizza never goes to waste, right?”

Harry has to smile at that. “It’s an anytime food. Come in.”

Louis ambles through the doorway, shrugging off his coat at the same time. Hanging it on an empty hook, he’s relieved to see Harry step back into his tiny kitchenette, open a cabinet, and pull out two mismatched plates.

“Thanks for making the trip,” Harry says. “I know this neighborhood isn’t exactly your scene.”

Louis senses that’s another knock at his lifestyle. Considering what he learned last night, he can’t blame Harry for it. He probably wouldn’t be crazy about himself either. He isn’t, actually.

“It was no problem,” Louis answers. He takes in the cozy flat, which isn’t difficult to do from his vantage point in the middle of the living/bedroom, considering its size. A deep red couch that’s slightly too big for the space attempts to mark the divide between Harry’s sleeping and living quarters. The coffee table in front of it is strewn with vinyl albums and their sleeves, some marked with Post-Its. (Louis makes a mental note to read them if he can get closer without calling attention to himself.) The walls are lined with photocopied gig posters held in place by thumbtacks. Harry’s guitar is propped up in the corner next to a floor lamp straight out of the ’70s and the same record player Harry’s owned since he was a kid sitting on a small table. He’s clearly abandoned the hope of owning any other living room furniture, dedicating the rest of the space to several crates of records, organized – according to the labels scrawled in marker on their fronts – by genre.

Behind the couch – the place where Harry sleeps, Louis unnecessarily clarifies for himself – is simpler and more peaceful, notably lacking in music memorabilia. There’s just a double bed pushed flush against the wall and covered by a faded blue comforter. Harry’s tacked a string of fairy lights over a hippie-ish fabric wall hanging and all around the rest of the bedroom. It’s all so...him.

_ Hello, Harry.  _

“Toilet’s down that way, if you need it,” Harry says, pointing away from the kitchenette when Louis turns back to look at him.

“Harry,” Louis begins, his eyes softening at the corners. It’s too sincere, but he can’t stop himself. “This is wicked.”

Harry makes a face, confused. 

“This is so you,” Louis continues, shaking his head in happy disbelief. “All those times we talked about moving into the city. This is what I pictured.”

“55 square meters and a four-floor walkup?”

“No...yes. Just...being able to have and do exactly what we wanted. Records all over the place. No curfew.” 

Harry snorts softly. “I don’t think you paid much attention to your curfew when we lived at home, mate.”

But it doesn’t sound much like an accusation, so Louis laughs too. “Guilty. Still, I hope you know. That this is great.”

Harry tucks an errant strand of hair behind his ear and seems to consider Louis’s case. “You know? You’re actually right. I think I forget sometimes that just moving here was a goal. Once upon a time.”

“Moved on too quickly to world domination?” Louis teases.

“Something like that,” Harry answers, fully grinning now. He’s pleased. Louis made him feel good about himself. “Anyway, please.”

He’s set up their dinner for them on the small wooden serving place between the kitchenette and the rest of the apartment, which evidently doubles as a dining area. Louis claims one of the stools; Harry hands him a beer from the fridge, takes one for himself, and cracks them both with the opener hanging from his keys.

Harry sits down opposite from Louis, and they both load their plates with slices, severing stubborn strings of rubbery cheese with their fingers. They eat in silence for a few minutes, Louis trying to yield the floor to Harry.

It was the right choice, Louis decides. After he’s finished his first piece, Harry wipes his hands and his mouth with his napkin and looks seriously at Louis.

“So you liked the songs.”

“Liked?” Louis replies incredulously. “Harry, I  _ loved _ them.”

“And you really think they could go somewhere?”

Louis nods solemnly.

“Well, what did you like about them?”

Louis knows that he’s being tested. He also knows that for as much as Harry knows about music, he can’t  _ stand  _ music snobs. So he doesn’t even attempt to talk like a critic.

“It’s amazing, first of all, what age has done to your voice. You could always carry a tune, Harry, but Jesus. The power on ‘Where Do Broken Hearts Go?’ And the writing. It’s like...you’re curious and you’re trying things, but you’re also  _ so sure  _ of what you want to say. Both of those songs made me feel things, and that’s a lot more than I can say for this shit band that I saw last night in a venue that  _ you  _ deserve to be playing.”

Harry has his elbows on the table, fingers steepled against his lips.

“Okay,” he says, after a few moments of consideration. “Thank you. It really does mean a lot to have anyone respond to my music that way.”

Louis feels a pang at the “anyone,” and it must have manifested in his face too, because Harry notices.

“No, that’s not what I mean! Well, um...I don’t know, actually, it might be what I mean.” Harry pauses to gather his thoughts, then speaks again. “Like I told you yesterday, it’s not easy for me to accept your help. But it’s not because I think I’m too  _ good  _ for it. I’m honored that my songs made you feel something. I’m honored if they make  _ anyone  _ feel something. But I think that we’re going to have to take it slow here – because of our history, yeah, but also because...it’s supposed to be hard? I have heard too many horror stories of indie acts who were promised the world and ended up worse off than they already were.” 

“Harry, you haul kegs through a rat-infested alley every day. You’re putting your stuff out on your own. I think you’ve paid your dues.”

Harry shrugs and bites into his second piece.

“And anyway, I’m not offering you the world. I’m just offering me.”  _ (Good one, Louis.) “ _ Well,” he stammers, “My connections, I mean. The rest, Curly, is up to you. Want another?”

Harry holds up his empty beer in confirmation, mouth full of crust, and Louis rises to get them both a second.

He moves to open the refrigerator door, then freezes, arm suspended in mid-air. This, then, is where Harry keeps all of his personal photos.

Forgetting that Harry can see him, Louis examines each one, delicately touching their edges with his fingertips and taking care not to knock down any magnets. There’s one of Harry, Gemma, and Anne, sitting around a kitchen table Louis recognizes. Gemma’s hair is tinted pink and Anne’s face has a few more lines, but they’re both as approachably pretty as ever. There’s one of Harry and Niall at the pub, engrossed in some kind of glass-stacking competition and clearly trash talking one another. There’s a photo of Harry performing on stage with a couple of guys and girls Louis doesn’t know. His hair is shorter and his face is rounder, so Louis is guessing this was his university band. And right in the center, there’s a photo of Harry and Nick, both in suits with arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling wide and joyfully for the camera. They look strong and beautiful and endless, like they’re going to the prom or something.

Harry comes up behind him to put their dishes in the sink. 

“That was Gemma’s wedding,” he clarifies, noticing how Louis is studying the picture. “Your mum was there with Lottie, I think. It was a fun night.”

Embarrassed that he’s been caught, Louis hurriedly opens the fridge and pulls out two more beers. He hands one to Harry and holds onto his own, making no move to open it. 

Nick was Harry’s date. To a family wedding. He traveled with him back to Doncaster. They’d gotten dressed up. Probably danced. Harry introduced Nick to all of his relatives, steering him around from table to table with a hand at the small of his back. Louis doesn’t want to think about the other possibilities. Even after that first night at the bar, the sheer force of his petty jealousy surprises him. He’s supposed to be the closest person in the world to Harry — after his mother and sister, of course.

“I think your whole family was invited, actually,” Harry says pointedly.

This is unbearable. 

“You know what I could go for right now?” Louis says abruptly, looking at Harry with wide eyes.

Harry swallows the slug of beer he just took. “No, what?”

“A game of  _ Mario Kart.” _

_ “Mario Kart?” _ Harry parrots, chewing the words. “I haven’t played that game in...10 years, probably. What even made you think of that?”

“No idea,” Louis says, truthfully. “So you don’t have it, I’m guessing?”

Maybe meeting in this little flat was a bad idea. Maybe it was too much, too soon, and they needed to let the tension breathe. Or maybe they’d both simultaneously rediscovered their childhood love of driving video games. For whatever reason, playing  _ Mario Kart  _ had become absolutely essential. 

“No,” Harry says, putting the half-full pizza box inside the refrigerator. “But I think I know a place that does. Grab your coat. Let’s get out of here.”


	12. Chapter 12

Where he came from, it was Harry who’d be skipping sideways to catch up with Louis. On the streets of London tonight, Harry strides confidently, hands in the pocket of his beat-up leather jacket. And Louis feels distinctly like he’s scampering half a step behind, his displacement in time made obvious by the way he can’t stop staring at every pierced and tattooed couple they pass, every line snaking outside of a neon-trimmed club. He and his best friend are living out their daily daydream right now, and what a shame that Harry isn’t even aware of how special this is. Louis has to marvel silently, so as not to give himself away.

Harry breaks their (Louis thinks) companionable silence. “It’s just around this corner.”

“Sick,” Louis answers.

They round the bend, separated for a moment by a pack of twenty-somethings divvying up a pack of cigarettes. Harry walks straight past a small queue to the bouncer standing in a doorway, who’s lit up from behind by a ghostly, multi-colored glow.

The bouncer smiles when he sees Harry, reaching out to clasp his hand in a friendly, robust shake. “Hey, man. All righ’?” 

“Can’t complain, Reggie, can’t complain,” Harry responds, then, turning to Louis, explains, “Reggie used to work at The Cross Keys. I’ve been meaning to pay him a visit.”

“Don’t you dare think of touching my  _ Street Fighter _ high score, Styles,” Reggie playfully warns.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Harry claps Reggie on the back once, then steps into the bar. Louis gives Reggie a wave, frowns in silent apology at the queue, then steps in behind Harry and gazes around in awe.

“Welcome,” Harry says with a flourish, “to the Four Quarters.”

It’s magnificent, is what it is. Besides a few dull lamps over the bar, all the light in the room is provided by the rows and rows of arcade games pinging and whooping away. All their favorites are there, plus some newer games that Louis doesn’t recognize. Customers juggle their drinks and small plastic buckets of coins emblazoned with the bar’s logo as they move from game to game. One foursome manning the original  _ Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles _ has drawn a small crowd, who cheer them on and donate their own coins as the players battle their way to the final boss. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never heard of this place.”

“Neither can I,” Louis says with reverence, too distracted by what’s happening around him to make eye contact. 

But Harry  _ sounds  _ pleased. “I’m glad you like it. I know it’s not the most... _ sophisticated  _ bar in the city. But I love the idea of it. It’s nice to have a reason to come here, actually.”

The last two times Louis and Harry were alone together, things had started awkwardly and then ended...well, badly. Contrary to what the hard line of his jaw suggests, this Harry isn’t so different of a person that Louis can’t read his moods. And this, he can tell, is the most relaxed and open he’s been in Louis’ presence, without any of his other friends around. It makes Louis want to forget how complicated his situation is, his need for answers, and even his mission to get Harry the career he deserves. All of that falls away when he hears the possibilities in Harry’s tone of voice. They’re going to hang out. Louis is so desperate for the normalcy of it that he could cry.

He focuses on Harry’s smiling face, half in light, half in shadow, and he feels the evening crack wide open.

“Was the reason that you missed me kicking your arse in  _ Mario Kart _ ?” Louis teases, mostly so he won’t burst into tears right in front of Mega Man.

Harry frowns and pretends to think seriously about it. “Actually I was hoping to recreate that time where I smoked you six games in a row and you got so mad that you went to the toilet to cry.”

Louis gasps indignantly. “I had a stomach ache and you  _ know it _ .”

“A likely story,” Harry responds, dispassionately. “This rematch is long overdue, I guess.”

Not everyone would catch it – maybe not even Nick – but Louis hears the regret in Harry’s tone. It breaks his heart a little bit.

“Come on, then, Harry,” Louis says, as cheerfully as he can. “First game’s on you.”

They change some pounds into American quarters at one of the bar’s specialized change machines, then Harry dispatches Louis to “save” the  _ Mario Kart _ console while he gets them some drinks.

Louis eases himself into the first player seat and runs his fingers wistfully across the familiar buttons, watching the preview races play out on the screen. When they went to the arcade together back in Doncaster, Louis always played as Luigi. The underdog. It had seemed too presumptuous and easy for anyone to claim Mario as their avatar – he was the star, so it was almost like cheating, even though Louis knows very well that the game doesn’t work like that. Harry reliably went with Princess Peach almost every time, even though he’d make a big show of scrolling through all the characters. Louis warms at the memory, which, to him, is only about a month old. It’s fresh, but feels simultaneously light-years away.

“Can I play?” Louis turns his head to the left to see a girl of about 19, holding a half-drunk cocktail and sizing him up (he thinks) flirtatiously. 

Louis pats his hand possessively on the seat next to him. “Sorry. This is for me mate.”

She nods and shrugs, unbothered, and Louis gives her a smile and a nod as she returns to her friends.

“How’d she take it?” Harry appears next to him. He hands Louis a beer, and Louis moves his other hand so Harry can slide into the Player 2 chair.

“She’ll survive,” Louis responds. “Plenty of other...games in the sea.”

Harry snorts.

“The more important question is – are you ready to eat my dust, Styles?”

“I don’t know what you’re so confident about, honestly,” Harry says, shaking his head. “It’s like you blocked out all the times I destroyed you.”

Louis grins back, his spirits lifted since Harry returned. He’s not even all that great at  _ Mario Kart.  _ And neither is Harry, while he’s at it. But the trash talking just feels too good – too ordinary – to stop.

“Nah, mate, I think your memory’s just going in your old age.”

Harry narrows his eyes in mock aggression. “We’ll see about that. I call Princess Peach!”

“For christ’s sake,  _ we know.” _

Harry beams proudly, and Louis tries not to notice his dimple deepening as he pumps a dollar’s worth of quarters into the slot. 

They choose their characters and their cars, and then it’s time to put their proverbial money where their mouths are. Louis puts his hands firmly at 10 and 2 when the screen shows them at the starting line. Their little Mario World engines rev, and the game counts dramatically down to “GO.” Just before it’s time to stomp on the gas, Louis sneaks a look at Harry. Harry looks back at him, waggles his eyebrows confidently, and produces a show-stopping smile. Louis misses the pedal the first time, and Luigi comes in ninth place.

They have the run of the game for over an hour, and the fact that they’re playing in American money means that Louis has little idea how much they (well, he) has actually spent. (He hasn’t let Harry near the change machine since the first time.) Neither one of them is good enough to rationalize their incessant bragging, but that doesn’t stop them from making more and more obnoxious pronouncements as they move from world to world. Ripping down those walls still standing between them is the real game they’re playing, and Louis can’t help but feel like he’s winning. He couldn’t care less about his pathetic inability to dodge shells, not when Harry looks so carefree, once cutting his wheel so far to the left that he almost tumbles out of the seat. 

It’s over after that one. They’re both laughing too hard to concentrate on another race.

“Truce?” Harry asks, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Truce,” Louis agrees.

They don’t get up yet, both of them looking down at their laps as their giggles subside. Once their shoulders finally stop shaking, Harry leans over and lightly bumps his side against Louis’s. 

“Hey.”

Louis meets his eyes, and finds in them the same sincerity he responded to when Harry was on stage. It’s the same raw, artlessness that made Louis worry so much for him when they (god,  _ when  _ they) were kids.

“This is fun,” Harry says, his voice deep and truthful.

He sounds like an adult. He does. But this Harry has also never looked more like the forthright little boy who lived next door. And Louis prays silently that he doesn’t hurt that boy again.

They still have some quarters left, which they decide to use for pinball. (“Maybe a  _ touch  _ less competitive,” Harry suggests, to Louis’s agreement.) Harry is much better at this game, and Louis can’t help but admire his concentration – and his teeth working his lower lip – as he bends over the machine, arse pushed into the space behind him, patiently for the ball in  _ The Addams Family _ to fall into the sweet spot before he lets the flippers fly. Louis leans on the machine to watch, careful not to obscure Harry’s view of the ball. For the first time since he woke up in this body, Louis thinks it might not be so bad to stay.

Harry’s last turn rolls by his flippers and falls into the void. “Bollocks,” he laments, lightly tapping the glass with his fist. Harry reaches into their bucket, picks up the last two quarters, and holds them out to Louis.

“You want a go? It’s the last of our funds.”

Louis presents his upturned palm, and Harry drops the coins into it. His fingertips barely brush Louis’s skin, and Louis thinks about how his mum would always hurry him straight to the sink when he got home from the arcade. “Think about how many other people touched the things you touched, love,” she’d cluck as he soaped up. “All those hands, all over everything.” 

Louis uses two fingers to pull the collar of his t-shirt away from his neck for a second. Some air, that’s all he needs.

After weakly thanking him, Louis changes places with Harry, maneuvering his body carefully to avoid them getting caught between two machines. Which would be awkward, right? Because they’d basically be pressed up against each other, face to face.

Somehow Louis gets to his spot with only their arms brushing, and he considers that a win. 

“How’d you rate your pinball skills?” Harry asks as Louis feeds the machine. “Scale of one to ten.”

“Like a negative eight?”

Harry lets out a low whistle. “That’s poor, Louis. That’s very poor indeed. But I’m going to coach you. The key to pinball is patience. If you slam on the buttons for no reason, you’ll miss your shot. So all you have to do is pull that lever back as far as you can, then wait for the ball to hit the middle of the flipper. And if you get a bonus, Gomez will say something nice to you.”

“Gomez is nice to everybody, Harry. He’s a gentleman.”

Amusement spreads across Harry’s face. Louis’s smartarsery still doesn’t faze him.

“How could I forget. Go on then.”

Louis grasps the red lever and pulls it back as far as the tension will allow. It snaps back into place with force, and the ball sails into play. He and Harry look on silently as it makes its way down the incline, pinging back and forth on bumpers and ticking up Louis’s score. Finally, the ball starts to roll steadily toward the bottom, with only Louis standing between it and the abyss. He waits and waits, just as Harry showed him. It’s ridiculous, how his blood pressure is rising. There’s absolutely nothing riding on this game. It doesn’t matter at all. Still, Louis’s heart is beating right between his ears as the moment of truth comes closer. Then the ball is there, and Louis finally taps the flipper button. For a fraction of a second thinks he made his move too late. But it connects, and the ball goes flying back up the slope. He doesn’t chance a look at Harry, only hears him whisper an excited “ _ Nice.” _

*****

Harry checks his tube app and sees that the line Louis needs isn’t running at this time of night. Louis doesn’t know what a Lyft with a “y” is, so he pretends to be too tipsy to order the car himself. Harry hands him his phone back after less than 30 seconds.

“Seven minutes. I’ll wait with you.”

Smug that his damsel act actually worked – and earned him an unexpected bonus seven minutes with Harry – Louis battles to ignore the thought that resurfaced when he stepped back out into the frosty midnight air. It left him alone for a few hours tonight, when he was content to be back in the good graces of Harry, but it was still there, sitting in the pit of his stomach. Whatever he was caught up in with Zayn, Louis knew Harry wouldn’t like it. If he ever found out, he’d walk away from this whole tenuous thing that they’d built, and he  _ definitely  _ wouldn’t accept Louis’s help. And the worst part about that wouldn’t be that Louis would lose Harry again, though, to be quite honest, that would be up there. No, the worst of it would be that Harry would be losing an opportunity to make his dreams come true, and it would all be Louis’s doing.

_ He can’t ever know. _

They’ve been silent for a while. Harry had kept his phone in his pocket the entire time they’d been inside the bar, but he’s scrolling through it now. Louis watches him, as casually as he can. They’d planned out a million different futures for themselves, but in their wildest forecasts, they’d never seen this coming. And though Louis is the one having a legitimately out of body experience, Harry was blindsided too.

There’s more to their teen years, and it wasn’t good. Harry hinted that strongly enough.  _ He has no reason to trust me,  _ Louis thinks.  _ Not one. _

_ And here he is freezing on a street corner. _

“Harry,” Louis interrupts. Harry looks up expectantly.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

The question stuns Harry into silence for a moment, lips parted and forehead creased in thought. Louis knows that he’s trying to decide what exactly is being asked.

“Because I’m nice to everybody,” Harry finally answers, light and breezy. “Me and Gomez.” He tries to go back to his phone, to head off this conversation that’s surely leading somewhere serious.

“Harry, come on, yeah?” Louis tries again. “That’s not what I mean. I was terrible to you. I had no reason for it. And you’re being nice to me.”

Harry locks his phone and puts it into his pocket with a sigh. He looks up at Louis with something like resignation. Louis can’t tell.

“I don’t know that I have a good answer for that, Louis,” he begins. “I think…I think maybe it’s just easier in some ways? It takes a lot of effort to not be kind, actually. I just don’t see the point of it. You don’t like someone, don’t hang around them, right?” 

Louis struggles to keep his elation from showing on his face.

_ Harry likes me. _

“It was fun tonight, just to hang out. And I think I owe it to myself to take a chance on whatever scheme you have to make me a rock star or whatever,” he says with a smile. “I don’t believe in holding onto grudges – in fact, I think it kills you faster. And I’m still going to be playing gigs when I’m ancient. Like, proper Keith Richards.”

Louis huffs a laugh.

“But...and please don’t take this the wrong way because it’s not just about you...but I also don’t believe in putting  _ all  _ my trust in anyone. We all disappoint each other, and you can only lose whatever skin you have in the game. So I figure, this doesn’t have to be some huge, earth-shattering deal.”

It’s a practical philosophy. Totally reasonable. So why does hearing Harry say it make Louis feel so sad?

“I know,” Harry concludes, responding to the confusion he thinks he sees in Louis’s expression. “That’s a crap answer. ‘Because I felt like it is also accurate, if you prefer that one.”

Louis’s phone buzzes in his hand. His driver is approaching, apparently. 

“Well thanks, Harry, either way. Hopefully someday soon it’ll be because I deserve it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a couple of Four Quarters locations in London, none in Camden however.


	13. Chapter 13

Louis couldn’t have missed his meeting with the _NME_ editor in chief if he tried, considering Liam sent two emails, a calendar invite, and a text to remind him. From his conversations with the intern, Louis gathers that he works from home unless he has something specific to go into the office for. And the morning after his video game outing with Harry, “JAMES CHECK-IN” looms on Louis’s to-do list.

Aside from the fact that he had to Google the address of his office _and_ a photo of his boss, Louis feels fairly confident about the meeting. He has only his experience with Liam to base this on, but it seems to Louis that interns exist to do your job _for_ you. All Louis has to do is read through the weekly “roundup” email that Liam has taken upon himself to send, and he should be able to successfully wing it. No sweat. Nooo sweat.

Which is why Louis is perspiring profusely by the time he gets to the magazine’s Bankside offices. Dressed in a button down shirt and fitted slacks that were certainly tailored, he at least hopes he looks the part, but deep inside he feels the same dread he did on the few occasions he was sent to the principal’s office for talking during class.

He dawdles on purpose once he’s through the main doors of the building, watching how the people in front of him scan their off-white key cards to gain access to the lift bay. Louis finds an identical rectangle in his wallet and uses it to mimic their movement. He’s rewarded with a ding, a green arrow, and two bars separating to let him through.

Louis pushes a nervous breath out through pursed lips as the lift climbs. _You are Louis Tomlinson. Big time music writer,_ he reminds himself. _You own this place._

But it’s hard to really internalize that fact, seeing as this is also Louis’s _first day._ Beyond the crib notes Liam gave him, Louis is completely clueless. He doesn’t even know where he sits. But maybe no one will notice if he wanders around for a while looking for his name on a door. He’s counting on it, actually.

The lift doors open, and Louis smooths the front of shirt one last time.

But he needn’t have bothered. The employees bustling around the _NME_ offices are decidedly casual. Men and women no older than their 20s and 30s are busying themselves with the work of a morning, retrieving coffee from a fancy one-cup machine like Louis has in his kitchen and visiting each other’s desks to gossip about their weekends. They’re mostly dressed in t-shirts, jeans, and artfully wrinkled swing dresses, and adorned with tattoos and piercings. Louis’s grandmother had always told him that he’d never find a job if he ever sullied his body that way, but these people all appear to be gainfully employed. _Take that, Nan,_ he thinks, triumphantly. It’s immediately followed by a wave of guilt and worry when Louis realizes he doesn’t know where or how she is right now. He makes a mental note to try to give her a call at the first opportunity.

Hopefully only Louis knows that he’s frozen in place, right in front of reception. And indeed, Liam comes to save him before his paralysis becomes too conspicuous. 

“Louis! There you are.” Liam approaches with a mug in hand, clearly a morning person. And they’d been getting along so well.

“Hey, Li,” Louis answers. Liam’s eyes crease merrily at the nickname.

“Can I get you one?” Liam points to the mug in his hand.

“Maybe in a minute,” Louis says, “but can you, um, come with me to my office first?”

Liam cheerfully agrees, and Louis lets him lead the way. Liam is too delighted with his life and busy asking Louis about his evening to notice that his boss is following him to his own office. Louis wonders if he can suggest a raise when he meets with James.

Once he sees his nameplate on a glass door, Louis overtakes Liam and beats him inside. It takes everything within him not to react to anything he sees, including and _especially_ the covers and signed photos on the walls of the small but busy office. He’ll check them out _thoroughly_ once Liam is out of sight.

“What can I do for you then?” Liam asks.

Louis hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“Uh…” he scrambles, then picks up a small stack of papers on the corner of his desk. “These need to be copied.”

Liam looks mystified, but accepts the task wholeheartedly anyway.

*****

Fortunately, Louis doesn’t have to come up with a reason for Liam to walk him to the editor in chief’s office. Apparently, James likes to meet with his writers “on their own turf,” so Louis’s calendar listed his own office as the location for their meeting. He has a solid half an hour to wrap his head around the place before his boss drops by, and Louis spends most of it Googling the names of bands and singers who’ve given him autographed photos. (He makes a mental note to ask Harry if he’s heard of Ed Sheeran; Louis thinks he’d like him, from the one song he’d sampled. They’re both unapologetically heartfelt.)

As the clock ticks down to their meeting time, Louis endeavors to stay busy, but he’s far too anxious. When James knocks and immediately opens his office door, Louis is sitting straight-backed in his chair, hands folded in front of his laptop. If his boss notices how _bizarre_ he’s acting, he doesn’t say anything.

“Louis!” James exclaims. “How are ya, mate?”

“Good, good, yeah,” Louis answers. (Is he supposed to stand up? Give James his chair? Bow or something? He can’t decide, so he stays in place.)

“I am glad to hear it,” his boss continues, sitting down in one of the chairs across from Louis’s desk. “I know you prefer doing the remote thing, and of course that’s fine. But we miss you in here, buddy!”

The flattery is a little much, but James sounds sincere.

“Cheers, that’s...that’s really nice,” Louis says.

James smiles and nods once, pleasantries taken care of.

“So,” he starts, in a business-like but still friendly tone of voice, “I don’t have much on _my_ agenda for you today, other than getting an update on the Glastonbury piece.”

An easy one. The knot in Louis’s chest loosens a bit, and he puts on his most together, authoritative persona.

“Glastonbury, of course. It’s coming along nicely. I’ve got all my interviews and I’ll be doing, uh, something with them very soon.”

Concern flits across James’s expression, like a cloud passing quickly over.

“Well, when you’ve got your angle straightened out, just let me know,” he says, and makes a note in his phone.

Louis swallows thickly. This is not going well. He has to distract him from his disappointment with a change of subject – a tactic he’d developed for conversations with his mum, usually after a question about laundry or geometry to which he had no answer that would please her. It worked _roughly_ 25 percent of the time, usually when she was tired enough from work to let him off the hook.

“Will do, sir,” Louis attempts, noting the way James tilts his head curiously at the respectful term. “But in the meantime, I wanted to tell you about this really _incredible_ new artist I caught the other night.”

“Ah, really? Where?” James doesn’t seem particularly interested, but that’s a tiny, insignificant obstacle considering everything else Louis has to do to make this work.

“This great pub in Camden – The Cross Keys? They do live music nightly, and the bartender’s a mate.”

“I think I know that place, actually,” James says, typing briskly on his phone. He finds what he’s looking for – the pub’s website, Louis can see from his desk — and starts scrolling. “Tiny, right? Doesn’t seem like your regular cup of tea, Louis. How’d you get dragged out there?” 

“It just kind of... happened,” Louis answers. _Understatement of the bloody century._ “But I’m telling you, James, this guy. He’s so good. He’s the real thing.”

His interest piqued by Louis’s enthusiasm, James re-engages. “I gotta say, man, I never thought I’d see you actually impressed by anyone or anything ever again,” he laughs. “Where’d my little jaded rock critic go?”

Louis ignores the facetious question, choosing instead to leave his chair and come out from behind his desk. Leaning his backside on the front of it, he tries to access his powers of persuasion. (Thanks, public speaking class.)

“I really feel like this artist – Harry Styles is his name, by the way – is going to blow up any minute. Somebody else is going to go to that bar and see what I saw and _they’re_ going to be the ones to break him.” In one of their conversations, Liam had observed how much James loved when _NME_ could take the credit for “discovering” someone, and it became a cornerstone of Louis’ admittedly crap strategy.

But James seems to be taking the bait, so Louis holds back on judging himself _too_ harshly. At least his boss is looking at Louis again, and not at his phone.

“What’s he, a singer-songwriter?” James asks.

Louis doesn’t think that bland term sufficiently sums up what Harry does, but he doesn’t have an alternate one. “Yeah, and just as good at both, as well,” he answers. “Wait until you hear his songs, si–uh, James. It’s like, I know how _he_ was feeling when he wrote them, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that I have to feel the same way? It’s like he’s singing about my life and his life at the same time. They’re...they’re…”

“Evocative?” James finishes, smiling indulgently.

Louis snaps his fingers then points them at James. “Evocative! That’s exactly it.”

It’s time to make his play. Louis raises his chin proudly and tries to look as confident, in-control, and not-13 as possible. If James bites – if he gives Harry this chance – Louis knows, he _knows_ , that Harry will deliver. It’s just up to him not to royally fuck it up.

“Liam reminded me that there’s an open spot in the _NME_ Breakouts concert this year, and um,” his assuredness falters and the last part comes out as more of a question than Louis had intended. “I was thinking perhaps we could invite Harry to fill it?”

James’ eyes widen a bit, but Louis takes comfort in the fact that he doesn’t look angry, and he doesn’t immediately shut him down either. Louis perches on his desk still, arms defiantly crossed across his chest. He knows that the very first slot in the magazine’s annual showcase is empty, thanks to Liam, and that it’ll be absolutely crawling with labels.

“It’s a big jump, Louis,” James says after a pause. “From that pub to Brixton Academy? Does he even have representation?”

If Nick is Harry’s manager too, Louis will cartwheel himself into the Thames. So he says no.

“It’s a concert meant to showcase up and coming talent, of course,” James says, all diplomacy. “But it’s tough to work with someone so green, Louis. We’re putting our name behind him, and he has no professional experience, it sounds like. It’s risky.”

Louis thinks of Ricochet, their mid-life crisis of a manager, and all the bored, trendy people that manager paid to come to their terrible gig. His uncertainty makes way for a fiery resentment.

“What’s music without risk?” Louis asks his boss, an edge in his voice. “How are we supposed to find real, raw talent if we have some... _list_ of requirements they’ve had to fill? Did anybody ask the _Stones_ if they had representation? Or the Beatles?”

James clears his throat. “Uh, yeah, Louis. At some point, I’m sure someone did ask.”

“My _point_ ,” Louis hisses. “Is that we can’t claim that this concert is about supporting new artists if we’re requiring those artists to already have an agent. People trust _our_ opinions, right? So I say, we like somebody, we believe in them – we put them up there, and let everyone see what they can do. I’m telling you, James. Harry is worth the risk.”

Louis had promised himself he wouldn’t get carried away. Instead he just shouted at his own boss. _Good one, you utter, utter cock._

James stays quietly in thought for a few moments, examining Louis’s face. Doubling down on his display, Louis juts his jaw out and doesn’t break eye contact. They stay in a stalemate for a solid minute, Louis hoping wildly that his sheer stupid obstinacy will win out. The tension breaks like a glass when James bursts into booming, infectious laughter. Louis has no idea what else to do, so he just stays stock still until James is finished.

“Who are you,” James asks, wiping his eyes, “and what did you do with Louis Tomlinson?”

Icy fingers of fear stretch down to Louis’s toes. He’s been found out. James knows. He doesn't belong here, and James knows.

“I’ve always respected your writing, Louis,” James continues, a little more composed now. “But honestly, I’ve been worried lately that you just don’t seem to _like_ any of the music you write about.”

Of course. Louis is supposed to be disillusioned and unimpressed. On one hand, Louis is relieved that’s all that James has picked up on. On the other, he just got even _more_ evidence that the other him is a prize dick.

“But maybe Liam’s rubbing off on you, or something,” James adds. “He loves everything, bless him.”

It’s not even a jab, but Louis still feels a surge of protectiveness for Liam. Liam, who basically saved his life this week. Not that he can ever know that.

But James isn’t finished. He’s standing now, eye to eye with Louis, with one supportive hand on Louis’s shoulder. “So, here’s the deal: Far be it from me to discourage whatever has you so excited. I wish you were like this all the time, honestly. I’d send you out on my advertiser lunches.” James chuckles at his own joke.

“And Harry?” Louis prompts impatiently.

“Bring me his demo and I’ll give it a listen,” James promises. “If he’s as talented as you say, the spot is his.”

Louis launches himself forward and wraps his arms around James’ shoulders. James puffs a little breath of surprise and takes a stabilizing step backwards. He relaxes after half a second, and taps Louis’s back twice with his fist before letting him go and pulling back. Louis grins away at him. From his boss’s expression, Louis is pretty sure that James thinks he’s lost his mind. But he just can’t bring himself to care.

“You’re not going to regret this, si–James,” Louis says. “I promise you.”

*****

It’s well after six by the time Louis makes it over to The Cross Keys. Liam had been so excited to have him in the office that he’d practically had the whole day planned out for them. Louis couldn’t begrudge his overgrown golden retriever of an intern, especially after reading the song review Liam had very formally submitted in an email requesting Louis’s thoughts. Liam’s devotion to music practically vibrated off the screen, even in an 800-word rundown of a new pop single by an artist – Shawn something – who Louis had never heard of before. It wasn’t fair, Louis had thought, that Liam was working for _him_ , considering what James had told him earlier. Not to mention what he knows about Other Louis’s moonlighting activities.

The pub is already filling up with the after work crowd, but Louis, pushing all his mounting guilt aside, is able to again claim the very stool he sat on the first afternoon he walked into The Cross Keys. Niall, who must have a sixth sense of some kind, makes a beeline for him.

“Louis!” Niall greets him with an ear-splitting grin, placing a coaster on the bar in front of him. “Good to see ya, my friend. Are you a regular now?”

“I’d like to be,” Louis answers with utter sincerity. Niall’s goofy smile softens and he bats his wrist at Louis in a “pshaw” gesture.

“But I’m here tonight _specifically_ because I have some news for Harry. He’s here, right?”

As if on cue, Harry appears in the crowd, coming from the direction of the kitchen, drinking from a bottle of water and waving at the two of them. Butterflies take flight in Louis’s stomach as Harry comes closer. He can hardly wait to tell him.

“Inventory’s done,” Harry tells Niall once he reaches the bar. “I updated the order on the laptop.” Then, turning to Louis, “Hello, there.”

Louis tries very hard not to let the unmistakable warmth in Harry’s greeting go to his head. He’s unsuccessful.

“Hi,” he breathes. “How are you?”

“Good,” Harry answers jauntily. He’s in a good mood. “Niall’s a little low on vermouth, but otherwise, I’m doing just fine. You?”

Louis doesn’t have the patience to build up to his announcement. “I talked to my boss about you today!” he blurts.

Harry freezes and eyes him cautiously. Niall rests his elbows on the bar and leans in to hear the rest.

Louis’s eyes dart excitedly back and forth between both of them, finally settling on Harry. “So. There’s this showcase concert next month, right? The _NME_ Breakouts. It’s a huge deal, artists get signed there all the time. Pretty much every major record company sends somebody.”

Harry nods, taking in the news.

“And they need one more act to fill it. I told James all about you. He just wants to hear a demo. If he’s into it, you’re in.” Louis claps his hands together and brings his clasped knuckles to his lips, holding for a response.

“Wey hey!” Niall exclaims, immediately setting to the task of pulling all three of them celebratory pints. “Harold, do you hear that? You’re going to be fucking famous. Louis says so.”

While Niall drinks deeply from his own pint, Harry leans down so close to him that Louis could count the little hairs in the space between his eyebrows. “Is this for real?” Harry asks.

“It’s for real,” Louis confirms. “The editor of chief of _NME_ wants to hear your music. He requested it, in fact.”

Louis can tell that Harry’s trying to modulate his own reaction. He catches his lower lip in his teeth so he won’t smile _too_ widely. It’s a marked difference from how his younger self, who wore his heart on his sleeve and would never have dreamed of searching for the catch in such good news, would have reacted. Louis is learning that this Harry prefers to bide his time until he’s absolutely sure. Well, he isn’t going to let him play this win down.

“You did it, Harry,” Louis continues. “You’re moving on to the next step, and they’re going to go _crazy_ for you.”

Harry shakes his head. “This is all you, Louis. I wouldn’t have this opportunity by myself, and you know it. I know I was resistant, but I’m just...right now, I’m just really grateful. That you pushed me.”

Neither of them really knows what to say after that. There’s logistics to be thought about, and Liam and Louis worked out a preliminary game plan that day. But Louis doesn’t want to threaten the magic of the moment with talk of minor details.

Niall has returned to work and Louis and Harry are still grinning stupidly at one another when Nick arrives, sidling up next to Harry before Louis even registers that he’s there.

“Hey, love,” Nick greets Harry, slinking an arm over his shoulder. Louis’s insides turn sour. “And hello again, Mr. Show Business,” Nick offers to Louis. He’s teasing; it’s utterly harmless. But _still._ “Honored that you’ve graced us again with your presence.”

“Hi, Nick,” he ekes out.

He can hear the fabric of Nick’s futuristic bomber jacket slide across Harry’s vintage silk blouse, his musky cologne is overpowering.

“Are you ready?” Nick asks Harry, using his thumb to wipe an invisible smudge off Harry’s chin. “I told Fi I’d be there before they cut the cake.” 

“Oh,” Harry sighs, looking immediately at Louis. “It completely slipped my mind. Nick and I have a birthday party tonight.”

“Good friend of ours,” Nick adds, oblivious to how Louis has completely deflated. “I’d say you should come with, but I think she rented a private room and it’s going to be a squeeze in there as it is.”

Stupid Louis, assuming he’d be honored as the big hero tonight – that he and Harry would celebrate James’ decision together. But Harry had a life before Louis barged his way back into it, and Louis can’t expect him to just drop everything else for him. He can’t be angry with Harry, who’s never promised him anything. He didn’t even know Louis was coming tonight. But he _can_ be mad at Nick. And Fi, whoever that is, for being born in March.

“Is your jacket in the back, love?” Nick asks. “I’ll go grab it.” He pivots on his heel and, let’s face it, _glides_ back to the stockroom, leaving Harry and Louis relatively alone.

“Will you be okay if I leave?” Harry asks, gently.

On one hand, it’s embarrassing. Harry’s picked up on the fact that Louis is very much _not_ okay with this turn of events. Maybe it’s the way his shoulders have slumped an inch or two since Nick’s arrival, or the violence with which he’s ripping his bar napkin into shreds. Louis has no claim on Harry’s time, and here he is, throwing, well, a tantrum.

On the other hand, it’s kind of nice that Harry’s worried about him.

“Oh, I’ll be grand,” Louis answers with a close-lipped smile. “I’ve got Niall and all these strangers to keep me company.”

Louis has this thing – sometimes, when he’s trying to be self-deprecating, he says something _too_ real, and accidentally depresses everyone around him.

“And I was just stopping by really,” he hurriedly adds, noting Harry’s concerned expression. “I just wanted to give you that, um, update.”

Harry taps his fist on Louis’s knee once. “Well, thank you. I don’t even want to think about how I’m going to get a professional demo together, but I suppose that can wait until tomorrow.”

Louis brightens, because he has a _plan_. “Don’t you worry, young Harold. I’ve got it all figured out.”

“Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like this?” Harry asks, good-naturedly.

“I don’t know, because it’s like pulling teeth trying to get you to let anyone do anything for you?”

“Ha _ha_.”

Nick reappears with Harry’s leather jacket, opening it up so Harry can slide his arms in. He nods at Nick in thanks; Nick playfully sticks his tongue out at Harry in response.

It’s nice, the idea that someone takes good care of Harry. But Louis can’t shake the feeling that that person shouldn’t be Nick.

“Alright, we’re off,” Nick announces.

Niall, who’s drifted back to their end of the bar gives them a salute.

“Have fun!” Louis shouts as Nick and Harry depart, perhaps just a little too loudly.

He gives them what he hopes is significant time to get out the door before Louis rises and lays a few bills on the bar next to his untouched beer.

“You’re leavin’ us already, Louis?” Niall asks. He pushes Louis’s cash back towards him. “That was supposed to be on the house..”

“Keep it, please. And yeah, I really just came here to tell Harry about my meeting. I’ve actually got some, uh, work to do tonight.”

Niall keeps wiping down the table as he talks, probably – Louis thinks – because he doesn’t want to spook him. “Ah, I see, I see. Well...it’s good to see you and Harry bein’ friends again. Got me thinkin’ about some mates from when I was in school. We lost touch, who knows why. But I reckon we’ve all got people like that, right? One minute you’re inseparable, and the next, you haven’t talked in years. Can’t help drifting apart. That’s life.”

“Niall, Harry and I didn’t drift apart,” Louis clarifies. “We weren’t friends anymore because of something that _I_ did. The universe had nothing to do with it.” _But maybe the universe,_  Louis realizes, _is trying to_ fix _it._

Niall nods wisely. “Well, it looks like you’ve got a second chance here,” he muses after a pause. “And that’s pretty damn lucky. Not everybody gets one of those.”

Louis tries to keep his focus on his second chance as he takes the tube home. But his thoughts are invaded by flashes of Nick’s possessive hold on Harry, his cheeky smile, the way he led him out of the pub by hand. There’s so much else to do and so many details to work out, but this unpleasant weight on his chest won’t allow Louis to concentrate on anything else.

Louis has known since he was about 10 that he probably fancied boys, thanks in no small part to a Robbie Williams performance on _Top of the Pops._ He came to think of it as fact, and something that would very soon be a more major part of his life. But he hadn’t mentioned it to his mum yet, partly because he isn’t – wasn’t – really very interested in kissing and dating and romance just yet. (Besides, he’s pretty sure she’d figured it out for herself.) Earlier bloomers were starting to pass notes through their lockers and daring each other to french kiss during field trips, but Louis didn’t much see the point of it. Still, it didn’t surprise him to see those photos of his older self with men – well, the PDA of it was a little shocking, but not the company.

He’d had celebrity idols certainly. (Danny Zuko, for one.) But Louis hadn’t yet developed a crush on anyone near his own age. His mates were his mates, and part of him used to wonder what kind of boy would be the first to make him feel something more than friendship. So it’s completely fucking _insane_ that it’s happening now, in this body, with the boy he once spent nearly every free hour with.

Louis turns his key in his lock 30 minutes later, in full meltdown. He _like_ likes Harry. He likes how deliberate he is in everything, like he’ll never do anything before fully thinking it through. He likes how he carries his guitar low on his hips. He likes that he puts Post-It notes on his record collection, like an ever-growing musical diary. Louis likes how he feels when Harry’s full attention is on him. And most of all, he likes that Harry is compassionate enough to let him have his second chance.

He’s also _absurdly_ hot. Small, chipmunk-cheeked Harry is now hot, and Louis is more than okay with it. Except for the fact that Louis now has no idea how to act around him, that nothing can jeopardize Harry’s chances at getting this showcase, and, oh, that he’s probably already in a relationship with Nick bloody Grimshaw.

As if the stakes weren’t high enough already in the horror show that is Louis Tomlinson’s life.

Inside his bedroom, Louis pulls off his work clothes and changes into an oversized t-shirt. He brushes his teeth, chooses a bottle from his skincare collection at random, and rubs the unidentified cream onto his face. It’s early, but Louis needs to be unconscious, like, _now._ So he turns out the light, sets his phone to charge, and crawls into bed. Sleep, however, doesn’t come to take him out of his misery for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now, kids. The second half of this fic will post within the week! In the meantime, PLEASE let me know what you think, and reblog the [Tumblr post!](http://a-brighter-yellow.tumblr.com/post/176893271998/high-enough-for-you-to-pull-me-under-by)


	14. Chapter 14

Harry lets out an appreciative whistle when he gets a look at the studio they’ll be using for the day.

He turns back to Louis, who’s walking behind him and doing a piss-poor job – he’s certain – of acting like he wasn’t just admiring the swell of Harry’s shoulders in the vintage black Harley Davidson t-shirt he’s wearing.

“I can’t afford this,” he emphatically whispers.

“What?” Louis adjusts his gaze about six inches higher. There. Harry’s face...Harry’s perfect face. He’s already forgotten the question. This is going to be a long day.

“There’s no way I can pay for this, Louis!”

“Who said you need to?”

“I did!”

It kind of baffles Louis, Harry’s reticence to take anything for free. If someone _wants_ to give you something, why fight it? But this is a point of pride for Harry, apparently. So Louis humors him.

“You can pay me back, I swear,” Louis insists. “Plus, they’re giving us a deal.” Well, Zayn’s contact gave _Zayn_ a deal, but Louis has no intention of telling Harry that – just as he refused to tell Zayn who he was booking the time for. He plans on keeping those two away from each other for as long as possible. Ideally forever.

“Just, don’t worry about that today, yeah? We’re here, it’s done. Just concentrate on the music and we can work out the details later.”

Two days had passed since Nick whisked Harry out of the pub and Louis had subsequently realized that he has a desperate crush on his grown-up former best friend. Securing this session, holding off Zayn’s questions, and vaguely answering James’s gently persistent emails about the Glastonbury piece thankfully prevented Louis from fully spiraling. In fact, he even tried convincing himself that Nick had just pissed him off the other night by whisking Harry away, that it was just _good_ to be friends with Harry again. Maybe he was just caught up in this crazy scheme and his emotions were generally running wild. But, nope. All that was over just 15 minutes ago, when he met Harry outside the Starbucks next to the studio. He was wearing a pair of ridiculous bug-eyed sunglasses and holding a mocha frappuccino out to Louis. He’d smiled crookedly when Louis had thanked him. _I love you_ , Louis had thought.

So that’s kind of where he’s at now.

Fortunately, there’s work to be done, and a soft-spoken, long-haired technician named Mitch showing them around the space. He’d pointed out the coffee station and the restrooms matter-of-factly, either oblivious to or ignoring how hard Harry and Louis are geeking out. As they were walking down the hallway to their assigned studio, Harry had spotted a photo on the wall that made him reach out and encircle Louis’s wrist between his thumb and middle finger.

“Oh my fucking god. _George Harrison_ recorded here.”

Louis said nothing, just tracked the the tingles running up his arm from where Harry’s skin met his.

“You’ve only got the place till seven” Mitch called. Right.

The plan was to lay down three songs: “Just a Little Bit of Your Heart,” “Where Do Broken Hearts Go?,” and one Louis hasn’t heard yet. To keep things simple, they’d decided to use electronic percussion instead of a live drummer and to layer Harry’s voice for the choruses instead of bringing in full backup. Harry had called in his friend Sarah – one of his university bandmates – to come in and help out with some extra guitar and a little bit of singing.

“She’s on her way,” Harry says, checking his phone. “She’ll be here in five.”

While Harry and Louis continue to explore the cozy but professional set-up, Mitch gets situated at the soundboard and starts adjusting levels.

Harry sets his battered guitar case down next to a lived-in armchair. “Cool vibe,” he says, fingering a red scarf that’s been thrown over a lamp, giving the whole room a rosy cast.

Louis hadn’t had a choice of which studio they’d get, but he’s still pleased that Harry’s pleased. It’s got a ’70s rec room quality that either by coincidence or destiny matches Harry’s own home. Very classic rock.

“Glad you like it.”

“So, Harry,” Mitch interjects, “I got the files you sent me, and I think I have a basic idea of what we can do. But we can always tweak things, and you can record as many takes as we have time for. I’m all yours until the end of the session, so just speak up and tell me what you like and don’t like.”

Harry’s mouth is serious but his eyes are glittering. “Got it, thank you, Mitch.”

He plops down in the armchair and pops open his guitar case. Louis lowers himself onto an ottoman right next to him. He has no idea what to say. They’d been doing so well, falling back into old patterns. And then Louis had to go and make it weird.

Harry doesn’t seem to pick up on anything amiss in Louis’s silence, though. He just goes on with what he’s doing, settling the instrument on his lap and strumming a few chords. Louis watches him and greedily notices everything, from the way Harry scrunches his nose adorably as he plays to the specks of black polish on his fingernails. He is so fucked.

Seeing as this is his first one, Louis tries to remember everything he learned about crushes from movies and _The O.C._ But there’s nothing helpful. The only uniting principle he can find is that they always, _always_ involve some level of embarrassment. They’re just _sitting_ there, and Louis’s heart is beating out of his chest. Every time he opens his mouth, he risks blurting out something that he can’t take back. So he doesn’t, and instead pretends to busy himself on the phone.

“Just in here, love,” a voice outside the door says, and then a pretty dark-haired woman joins them.

“Hey there, so sorry I’m late!”

“There she is,” Harry says fondly, setting his guitar down and coming to his feet to give Sarah a hug.

Harry wraps his arms around her tightly and they stay there for a while. He’d mentioned to Louis that it’d been just about a year since the last time they’d gotten together and even longer since they’d played.

Finally, Sarah pulls back and takes Harry’s face in her hands, like a mother might. “I’ve been waiting too long for you to do something like this, Styles. I always said that if anyone of us would be able to actually make it, it would be you. You’re our Timberlake, darling.”

“Are you kidding?” Harry counters. “You guys taught me everything I know. And everybody knows that JC should have been the breakout.”

Louis giggles. Harry is hilarious. Beautiful and hilarious and absolutely right.

“Thank you so much for coming. You’re a lifesaver.”

“My pleasure,” Sarah says, dropping her hands and removing her furry orange jacket. “Is Nick here?”

Louis’s heart drops like a stone.

“Ah, well...no,” Harry says, running a hand through his hair.

“Oh,” Sarah looks embarrassed. “Is that not a thing anymore? I thought I saw you on his Instagram, but I–”

“No, no, no,” Harry stops her. “It’s fine. We’re fine. We’re just...different.”

Sarah raises an eyebrow, though Louis would bet his entire flat that she isn’t as interested in getting this full story as he is. “Well, tell him I said hi next time you see him – but who is _this?”_

She’s looking around Harry at Louis, who, shit, should have probably stood up when she came in. He stands now, and walks to her with a hand outstretched.

“I’m Louis. Tomlinson,” he starts. But how’s he supposed to describe who he is to Harry? Old friend? Business partner? Stalker? “Harry and I...grew up together.”

Sarah gives a curious sideways look to Harry, then smiles brightly at Louis. “Lovely to meet you, Louis from growing up together. Now, who wants to tell me what we’re doing first?”

*****

The first track goes smoothly enough. Sarah had gotten the same email as Mitch and obviously came prepared. Her presence also seems to have put Harry more at ease. Louis can’t help but be charmed as they crack jokes in the booth between takes, even if he doesn’t get most of them. Harry looks right at home in there, hair curling around his headphones as he does what he was born to do.

Mitch flicks a switch and his voice invades the booth. “Wanna do that one more time, guys?”

“You got it, boss,” Harry answers, with a professional nod.

Mitch kicks in the slow heartbeat of a percussion track that they’ve chosen for “Just a Little Bit of Your Heart,” and Harry watches as he silently counts him in.

Louis is too excited to sit. (Okay, so Mitch had banished him from the soundboard for pushing one measly button. Literally, how is anyone supposed to resist?) So he stands near Mitch and feels relatively useless. Everyone else in this room is doing a job but him. Louis has nothing to distract him from his increasingly obvious problem, which is that he can’t take his eyes of Harry.

All Louis can do really is offer moral support, so dammit, he’s going to _at least_ do that to the very best of his ability. Every time Harry’s eyes fall on him, Louis mimes encouragement. He started with an enthusiastic double thumbs up, which was fine, but he’s running out of variations on the theme. At one point, he may have even raised the roof.

Harry’s lost in the song now, though, so Louis has a bit of a break. His eyes are closed as he croons the second verse into the mic, smooth and confident. Louis slides his phone out of his back pocket and opens the camera app. He pinches the screen to zoom in on Harry, careful to avoid the glare of the glass. He snaps a few photos in quick succession, hoping to capture and save Harry’s impassioned expression, his forearms flexed across the grain of his guitar. Satisfied, he drops the phone and locks it. When he raises his gaze again, Harry’s eyes are open and he’s looking straight at Louis.

_Shit_.

Louis is thrown into full panic, and it doesn’t help that he can’t read Harry’s intense expression. He wants to look away, but that would surely just make it worse. Just when Louis thinks he’s going to dissolve into a puddle of embarrassment right on the spot, Harry smiles and winks at him, then launches wholeheartedly into the bridge.

“You tell me if you don’t agree, but I think we got it,” Mitch says into the mic about a minute later. “Love the passion on that last one, man.”

“I’m happy if you are, mate,” Harry says. His voice is still as full and warm as it was before they started.

“Should we take five?”

Harry nods and takes off his headphones, looking contented. He turns to Sarah, and when he raises his right hand, she does the same. They move like they’re about to high five each other, but halt in mid-air right before their palms connect. They dissolve into laughter that Louis can’t hear, and then Harry opens up his left arm like a wing so that Sarah can situate herself under it. They come into the outer room that way, Sarah patting Harry’s back lightly as he compliments her playing.

Louis looks on, arms crossed in front of his chest and a smile playing on his face. They’ve only been together an hour or so, but he gets the sense that Harry and Sarah’s friendship is the kind that touches other people instead of keeping them out. He can picture them at uni, holding court at rehearsals, but still taking every opportunity to encourage their bandmates; or saving seats for their friends at their regular coffee shop, thighs touching on the couch as they talk over each other in all their stories. (Okay, so most of what Louis knows about university he learned from _Felicity.)_

Still, he wishes he could have been there. Sarah would have liked him, he thinks. And he would have liked her.

“Earth to Louis.”

Louis presses his lips together and looks up, wide-eyed. “Hm?”

“I said, how’d that photo come out?” Harry asks again.

Louis panics and racks his already overloaded brain for excuses. Sure, Sarah and Harry are _looking_ at him normally, but they’re probably just being polite. He is a disaster, and everyone sees right through him. Even Mitch thinks he’s a complete idiot.

“Oh,” he comes up with, after an excruciating few seconds. “I was just going to text it to my mum. Thought she might like to see what you’re up to.”

Harry frees Sarah from his side and reaches for the bottle of water he left on the coffee table.

“Tell her I said hello, then.” He unscrews the bottle and takes a sip. “Good to hear you’re reconnecting with your family.”

“Reconnecting?” Louis repeats the word slowly and thoughtfully.

“Yeah, weren’t you out of touch with them for a while?”

It had been humming in the back of his mind for a while, and now it all makes terrible sense. Why he hasn’t had a voicemail, a text, an email – not from his mom, his sisters, a distant cousin – no one.

Louis feels the color drain from his face. “I don’t talk to my family?”

“Oh god, ’m sorry,” Harry says with haste. “I shouldn’t pry, that was...uh, fuck, that was stupid. Of course that’s your own business.”

“How did you know?” Louis asks, his voice small.

“I’m going to step out and have a cigarette,” Sarah announces, weaving through them politely on her way out of the studio. Out of the corner of his eye, Louis sees Mitch put his headphones back over his ears.

“Shit. Come on, Lou, sit down. I’m an idiot.”

Louis lets Harry lead him to the couch, then sinks despondently into the cushions.

Harry reaches into the mini-fridge next to him, grabs another bottled water, and hands it to Louis, looking equal parts mortified and concerned. Somewhere underneath Louis’s despair, he’s touched.

“It’s fine,” Louis sighs. “Well...apparently it’s not. But I’m not mad, Harry. Not at you. I just…” He can’t ask what happened between him and his family. He’s supposed to know. “I just was curious how you knew?”

“Mum,” Harry says simply.

Louis nods, looking down at his upturned palms.

“It wasn’t...gossip, you know? My mum loves your mum, you know that. I think she was just sad for her. For both of you.”

Louis feels the tears pooling in his eyes and willing them away doesn’t work. He wipes his hand over his face and stands up in one swift movement, doing his best to block Harry’s view. The thought, the _fucking_ thought. What kind of monster would he have to be to walk away from his entire life like that? From his mother, who went to work every night without complaint to give them everything they wanted?

“I am...Jesus, I cannot tell you how sorry I am for bringing this up, Louis. I just figured everything was okay now, since you mentioned her.” Louis is thankful that Harry stays put on the couch instead of coming over to comfort him.

“People fight. It happens,” Harry tries. “And you patched it up, right? It’s all in the past.”

Louis faces him again, cheeks shiny with tears. “Harry, I think...I think I’m a bad person.”

“No, no, no.” Harry rises from the couch now, crosses over to Louis, and hugs him. Hard.

He hadn’t really thought much of it, that besides some fist pounds from Niall and self-conscious bro-taps from Ben, Louis hasn’t had any human, physical contact since he was home and 13. But by the time the sensation of Harry’s arms around him really hits him, he’s almost drowning with the need for it. All sense of propriety gone, Louis grips the cotton of Harry’s t-shirt and falls fully into him. It’s not sexual, or romantic. It’s a ship coming into shore.

He hooks his chin over Harry’s shoulder so he won’t cry into the material, but gets the sense that Harry wouldn’t care at all if he did.

“You’re not a bad person, Louis,” Harry murmurs, rubbing his back soothingly. “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. Doesn’t make you bad.”

Louis scoffs, but doesn’t let go.

“Think about it: Would a bad person be this upset about it? Lou, the fact that you care is everything. Or at least like, 80 percent,” he jokes, carefully.

Harry slides slowly backwards, untangling their arms. But he doesn’t go far.

“Everybody probably hates me, though. Back home. Here even,” Louis says, thickly. “I mean, you did.”

“I don’t hate you now,” Harry says with a placating smile.

“That’s ’cause we’re in this studio and I’m going to get you a record deal,” Louis grumbles.

“No,” Harry answers, enigmatically. “It’s because I never did.”

Louis silently fish-mouths, his entire reality thrown out of whack _again._ He’d just...assumed. He’s saved from having to respond, however, when Sarah returns from her smoke break.

“All good, boys?”

Harry, facing away from the door, searches Louis’s face for the answer, like he doesn’t want to go back to work until he knows Louis is okay.

That’s good enough for him.

“All good, Sarah,” Louis calls over Harry’s shoulder.

Harry tugs on Louis’s hand reassuringly before he intercepts Sarah and follows her back into the booth. Once they’re back at their mics, Louis sees Harry pulls his phone out of his pocket and quickly type something out. The moment he puts it back into his jeans, Louis’s own phone buzzes.

_We can talk about it more later, if you want. xx_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is torturing Mitch so much fun??


	15. Chapter 15

Louis is starfished on his bed, golden early morning sunlight peeking through the sliver of window between the heavy blackout curtains he didn’t properly close the night before. The song he’s listening to ends, and then it’s deathly quiet – that “last man alone on earth” kind of quiet. If he were at home, there’d be a whole symphony of background noise. He’d hear his mother down in the kitchen, whisking up eggs for breakfast (they went through a dozen every Saturday); Lottie singing along to whatever was on pop radio; and the twins’ socked feet pounding against the hardwood as they chased each other down the hall outside Louis’s bedroom. It was distracting, disruptive, and impossible to escape – and he misses every bit of it.

The silence doesn’t last long, however. Louis lifts his head and shoulders off the mattress so he can pick out the right key on the laptop laying beside him, and he starts the track again.

_Same lips red, same eyes blue_

Until Harry and Sarah did their first take at the studio, Louis hadn’t heard this song. It was the last one they put down, and even after their hour lunch break of Thai takeaway, he was still feeling raw from what Harry had passed along along about him and his family. Maybe that’s why Harry looked almost apologetic before he started to sing.

“It’s so...melancholy, man,” Mitch said after they’d made it through once. “Deep shit.”

“Jesus Christ, Haz,” Sarah asked, “Is this about Grimmy?”

“Stop fishing,” was all Harry had to say in response.

Don’t get him wrong – Louis wants desperately to know who the other ghost is in this scenario. But that became secondary to the rest of the ways the song affected him.

“It’s about change?” he mused between takes. “And how it’s hard, no matter what. Painful even.”

“See, Louis gets it,” Harry said to Sarah with exasperation, gesturing in Louis’s direction.

_We’re not who we used to be, we’re not who we used to be_

Back in his bedroom, Louis slaps his palms into his mattress with force. He’s torturing himself.

He hoists the laptop so it rests on his belly and types “blink 182” into the iTunes search bar. As good as this is – and it’s really fucking good – he needs a change of soundtrack. Fortunately, adult Louis apparently hadn’t given up Tom, Mark, and Travis, and the band’s entire catalog loads instantly. He chooses “Feeling This,” cranks the volume, and heads into the kitchen for some Captain Crunch.

He pours until the mound of cereal is higher than the lip of the bowl, then adds as much milk as he can without the whole thing overflowing onto the counter.

It had gone well, considering. The whole point was to get Harry a professional-grade demo, and now he’s got one. Louis had wanted to send it off to James the second Mitch had uploaded the files to a private Dropbox, but Harry wanted to sleep on it – give the whole thing one more listen before he said a prayer and put it out into the world.

The downside, of course, was Louis’s full emotional meltdown. His cheeks warm with shame as he remembers it, and then with affection as he thinks about how delicately Harry had treated him afterwards. He’d hugged Louis as they parted – a more casual, perfunctory thing than their tearful embrace in the studio, but a hug just the same. Maybe he’ll do that every time they see each other, now. Louis could live with that.

He picks up the bowl with both hands and raises it to his lips to drink the last bit of sugary sweet milk. Mid-slurp, Louis’s phone lights up with a text message from Zayn.

_You’re going to that thing tonight, I fucking well hope_

*****

It had taken some convincing, but Louis managed it. If he was expected to show up to some industry party with a bunch of strangers thrown by some people who make amps or whatever, then he’s damn well going to get Harry some exposure while he’s at it. He’s pretty sure Harry thought about hanging up on him as soon as he mentioned Zayn, but Louis had prepared a couple of bargaining points.

“You don’t even have to talk to him, Harry. We’re just using his name to get in, he’ll probably be off, I don’t know, sucking up to people more important than us.”

That hadn’t done the trick on its own, so, with a heavy heart, he deployed Plan B.

“Just come. It’ll be fun. Bring Nick, if you like.”

And that’s how Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles, and Nick Grimshaw came to be standing on the stoop of a club, giving their names to a curt publicist with long, sharp-looking fingernails and a clipboard.

“In you go, then.”

The bouncer opens the door, and they’re enveloped by bass. Louis is unsurprised but still annoyed to see Nick put a hand above Harry’s hip and maneuver him through the door. As if he couldn’t complete the task himself. But Louis is also strangely thankful to have a buffer. He’d nearly fainted when he crossed the street and spotted Harry under a street lamp on the corner where they’d agreed to meet. Bathed in grubby light, he looked like an album cover, clad in tight black trousers, a matching fitted blazer, and a silky, powder-blue blouse that did nothing to obscure his shape. He and Nick seemed to be talking about something fairly serious, but when Harry saw Louis coming, he grinned. _What a turn of fucking events_ , Louis thought. Harry. Happy to see him.

Being inside the club is like being inside a pulsating organism. Everything is moving in tandem, the underlying beat determining action. It’s overwhelming in an exciting way, but Louis fears his exhilaration. It’s too much – Harry looking like this, the bodies sliding against each other all around them, the sense that, in this lighting, you could pretend to be someone else and get away with it. Louis feels drunk already.

“I’ll get drinks!” Nick announces, then bounds off without asking either of them what they want.

Louis doesn’t move, struck motionless by the sheer amount of activity going on around him.

“You alright?” Harry says in Louis’s ear.

_No._

“Yeah.”

“Right. You know, _I’m_ the one that’s supposed to be nervous here. Don’t you go to these things all the time?

“I mean...yeah. Don’t like them much, though.”

“That’s not what the blind items say,” Harry teases. Louis has no idea what he’s talking about, but he likes the way they have to intrude upon one another’s space to be heard.

“If it isn’t little Harry Styles!”

Zayn approaches, clad in a flowered blazer, new streak of blonde in his hair.

Harry’s expression falls, and Louis notes how he crosses his arms protectively over himself. “Zayn.”

“Oh, look at _you,_ H,” Zayn says with false sweetness. “You grew. You lost those cheeks we all loved to pinch so much.”

If Zayn tries to, Louis senses, Harry will actually slap him.

“Yes,” Harry drawls with disdain, “the aging process works on everyone. Fascinating.”

“Zayn…” Louis warns.

_“What?_ I’m complimenting the guy.” He turns back to Harry. “Seriously, this whole Fashion Week Johnny Cash look is working for you.”

“And this whole rent boy Jimmy Buffett look is working for you, love,” Harry responds.

There’s a pregnant pause, wherein Louis envisions himself trying to break up an actual, physical fight. Then Zayn really, properly laughs.

“Can you believe this? Three Donny boys, back together in the big city. We’ve gotta get a photo for Instagram later.” He ignores Louis and Harry’s complete lack of enthusiasm for the suggestion.

“Shit, I should be circulatin’. Lotta contacts here. You boys have fun. And drink the expensive stuff, it’s an open bar.”

“Well, _he_ certainly hasn’t changed at all,” Harry says, once Zayn is safely gone. For a terrifying moment, Louis feels sure that Harry is going to leave, but then he chuckles. “It’s kind of reassuring, actually. Who wants to be the _exact_ same person they were in secondary?”

The longer Louis is here in this time, the more he’s sure that school is never _really_ over.

“Drink delivery!” Nick is back, holding out a soft pink cocktail to each of them.

Louis asks, “What is this?” the same time Harry asks, “Where’s yours?”

“Mine is being held for me by a ginger gentlemen wearing Burberry, and I’ll be returning to him shortly.”

Harry gives him a knowing, uncomplicated smile and raises his drink in congratulations.

“Oh, and it’s some sort of rum punch thing,” Nick explains. “Specialty cocktail apparently. They look harmless, but they’re probably lethal. I’m hoping Burberry is the same.”

And then he’s gone, disappearing in the mass crowding around the main bar.

“It was nice of you to extend the invitation to him,” Harry says, encroaching on Louis again. “And I know you did it so I’d feel more comfortable. But I could’ve told you he’d ditch me as soon as we got inside the door.”

He’s not upset, which is confusing. In fact, Harry’s tickled. Louis’s eyes must betray the bloodlust he feels in his heart, because Harry tries to explain further.

“I mean, he wouldn’t leave me if we were here _alone._ He’s a good guy, honestly, he just...he’s always looking to pull. Always. And if he can find a guy to go home with him, he will. He usually does, actually.”

“But like...how does that work?” Louis asks. Because if they’re talking about it, he might as well. “If you’re together?”

Harry stops his cocktail before the rim hits his lips, regarding Louis with something like surprise. “We’re not together.”

“Oh, I just. I assumed? You seem pretty...coupley.”

“We used to be,” Harry says, with no hint of regret. “We dated for the last year or so of college, and then another year after we moved to London, but only because it took that long to figure out that we were better as friends. You know those romantic comedies where two best friends finally realize that they should date, and their lives just automatically get better? We’re like, the opposite of that. Suddenly all these things that bugged us about each other didn’t matter, because we weren’t trying to be in love. Do you want to sit?”

Louis nods, and they hustle over to a very recently vacated banquette. Louis has the feeling that Harry has more to say about Nick, so he doesn’t say a word once they’re settled.

“You’re not the only person who’s been confused about us,” he continues. “Because we had the physical relationship, we’re comfortable touching. We just got, um, used to it, I guess.”

Somehow this is worse, the sitting. They still have to invade each other’s space to hear, but now there are laps and arms and legs involved.

“So it doesn’t bother you?” Louis ventures, strategically keeping his knuckles from brushing Harry’s thigh as he braces himself on the couch.

“That Nick always finds someone?” Harry laughs. “If I were the slightest bit jealous, we wouldn’t have lasted this long. Anyway, I do alright for myself. And who’s going to feel sorry for me, sitting here with you?”

Louis has about a million follow-up questions for that, but none with an answer he trusts himself to process.

The mystery of Nick solved and no further sign of Zayn, Louis relaxes into the night. They polish off their first cocktails quickly, recapping the studio session and plotting the drop to James. A cocktail waiter with a tray of pink drinks floats by, and Harry stands up to grab two more. When he sits back down, he places the drinks on the table in front of them and then wraps his right arm around the back of the bench. If Louis were to lean back six inches, Harry’s hand would be in his hair. So he tries to think of anything but leaning back six inches.

They sip their second drinks a little quicker than the first. Harry regales Louis with stories from uni, like that time Adam booked them a gig that turned out to be an 10-year-old’s birthday party and said 10-year-old had made her father ask them to stop playing and put on the _High School Musical_ soundtrack instead. Of course, Louis doesn’t have any of his own tales to share, but he knows from the degree hanging in his office that he went to Leeds and majored in Communications, and Harry seems to accept his vagaries without question.

By drink three, they’ve time-warped back to Doncaster and those lazy, dreamlike afternoons.

“You loved that Train song!”

“Did not,” Harry says, slurring slightly. “I listened to it _ironically._ ”

Louis scoffs, and pretzels his left leg half under him on the couch. “You didn’t have an ironic bone in your body, Haz.”

“Not until Nick Grimshaw came along,” Harry says somberly.

They collapse into giggles, Louis propping himself up with a hand on Harry’s shoulder. After drink two, Harry had taken off his blazer and draped it on the banquette. Tipsy as he is, Louis is _very_ aware that the only thing between him and Harry’s bare skin is a flimsy layer of fabric, which he’s just noticed, is decorated with a bee print.

Their laughter trails off, and Harry’s eyes find Louis’s. He pulls his hand back as casually as he can, but Harry still looks at him curiously.

Because he has to say _something_ and because he feels like he owes him at least this, Louis gathers his courage and confesses.

“I miss it,” he says, running his hands down the black jeans that cover his thighs. “I had so much fun with you, Harry. I should have said then, so you knew. But I was young and _really_ stupid.”

Harry appears to weigh the statement, looking at Louis with his head cocked to the side and mouth opened to respond. A reply seems imminent, but then the song changes.

_Lil’ bitch you can’t fuck with me, if you waaaanted to_

Louis’s blubbering forgotten or ignored, Harry grabs Louis’s hand and smiles crookedly at him. “Let’s dance.”

“What??” Louis asks, but Harry is already yanking them towards the floor.

“It’s Cardi, we _have_ to,” Harry calls back.

There isn’t much room, but Harry finds a pocket inside the sweaty mass where they _just_ fit. Louis wishes he’d been paying more attention to the floor tonight than to Harry’s delicate collarbones. What do people even dance like in 2018?

If you’re Harry Styles, you apparently dance by acting out the words to the song. He bounces his shoulders and pops his hips, shelling out imaginary bills on the line, “I make money moves.” Louis finds it very endearing that he refuses to yell the word “bitch” with the gusto with which he raps the rest of the song. But he can’t concentrate on what _he’s_ doing while he’s watching Harry make such a beautiful fool out of himself. So mostly he just stands and watches, smile plastered on his face.

“Come on, _Lewis!”_ Harry shouts, grabbing Louis’s hands and swinging his arms left to right in a wide arc. “These is blooody shoes!”

It hits Louis that since they’ve walked in here, besides Nick, Zayn, and the staff, Harry has paid attention to no one but him. (A selfish failure on Louis’s part, considering the alleged reason for bringing him.) There are people here he could sleep with or who could make him famous or who would bring him into a higher social echelon. But Harry isn’t the kind of person who’s always on the lookout for the next best thing. Louis knows, without a doubt, that if cooler crowd had come knocking for Harry back in school, he would have _never_ done what Louis did to him. No matter the reward.

Harry’s song ends, and, _Jesus Christ,_ the DJ chooses this moment to play the night’s first slow jam.

They’ll probably head back to their drinks and their relatively safe seating arrangement, Louis imagines. But, no. Harry makes no move to leave the floor, instead swaying in place with eyes screwed shut while he places the song.

_Above us all the stars are watchin’_

“It’s Bruno,” he announces momentarily, eyes popping open.

“You talk about these people as if they’re close, personal friends of yours,” Louis manages.

“Shut your face,” Harry says, grasping Louis’s left hand and twirling himself under it.

Louis gets into it after a few seconds, their silly attempts at formal partner dancing. They twirl each other, do a few small dips as space allows. But around the second verse, the movements become smaller and the mood begins to shift.

Harry twirls Louis’s body into his, then keeps him there, Louis’s back to his front. Louis feels so lightheaded that he’d probably fall if Harry didn’t have one arm curled around his stomach and the other wrapped around his shoulder. They’re not touching below the waist, but their torsos are glued together. And it’s surreal, Harry’s breath in Louis’s ear and fingers tightening in the hem of his t-shirt, his height and solidity making Louis feel small and sheltered. He thanks whatever put him here that he has his adult, um, physical faculties. Because teenage Louis would have already had a very embarrassing moment.

There’s nothing to say, so they don’t say anything. Louis wants to pass a note: _Do you like me, check yes or no._ But then Harry’s spinning him back out to face him, and Louis is instinctively resting his forearms on Harry’s shoulders. Harry puts one hand on Louis’s hip and the other on his lower back, and Louis still can’t get over the size of them. He feels him lightly squeeze his hip so Louis will look at him. Harry’s expression is dark and loaded, and it throws him off in the best way.

“‘s this okay?”

Louis’s throat is so dry, he’s surprised when words come out. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay.”

They stay that way until the song ends, Louis calculating all the possible outcomes if he were to just let it all go and fall forward into Harry. The EDM track that follows it is an unwelcome intrusion.

“I should…” Louis starts, since the spell has been broken.

“We should go, yeah,” Harry says. He sounds a little breathless. It’s thrilling.

Harry politely excuses himself to the couple who’s taken over their banquette so he can retrieve his jacket. They make their way through the club, back to the front door, Harry again guiding Louis by hand. They don’t see Nick or Zayn, which is good, because either of them would some asking for an explanation. Louis wonders if Harry’s legs feel shaky too.

It’s eerily quiet outside, the door line gone and the bouncers checking IDs inside.

“Should we share?” Harry asks, when they get outside. He drops Louis’s hand to use his phone, and it makes Louis feel petulant.

“Share what?”

“A car. I can ask for two drop-offs?”

“Oh! Um, yeah, let’s do that.”

Plenty of car services troll the area close to closing time, so they don’t even have to wait two minutes for their driver. It’s weird to be standing half a meter away from each other now, as if what had happened in the club existed in some kind of alternate universe.

“Harry?” The Lyft driver says through the window as he pulls to the curb.

“That’s us,” Harry answers. Louis wants to cheer, or maybe cry.

Harry opens the door and motions for Louis to get in first.

“Volume okay?” the driver asks.

“Fine, thank you for asking,” says Harry as they settle into their seats.

Louis’s ears are still adjusting after being in the club for hours. He’s afraid to talk for fear he’ll be yelling. As much fun as tonight was, it’s nice to be in a warm, quiet car with Harry, classical music playing softly through the speakers.

Harry spreads his knees wide on the bench seat, tapping Louis’s leg lightly with one of his own. “Thanks for bringing me tonight.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t do any work though, did we? I was supposed to introduce you to pe–”

“Honestly,” Harry cuts in. “I’m good with people but I am _shit_ at networking. This, just how it was...was really great.”

What Louis is hearing – which can’t be right – is that Harry relished spending the whole night with _him._ It’s like a gift, this feeling. And he has to return it.

“So,” Louis clears his throat. “Remember how I said before, how I wish I’d told you more when we were kids?”

They’re on a relatively dark street now; Harry’s profile is in shadow.

“Yeah?”

“Well, I need to tell people things. About what I’m feeling, when I feel it. Because when I wait, well, it’s...not good. So, here goes: I’ve been having a lot of fun with you. Now. These last few days. And I think it’s actually changed a lot for me.”

A few seconds pass in silence. Then Harry’s “Me too” is barely a whisper.

When they pass a brightly lit 24-hour-grocery storefront, Louis catches a full glimpse of Harry’s expression for the first time since they pulled away from the club. It’s just a split second, but he’s gazing at Louis intently – specifically, gazing at Louis’s mouth.

Without thinking, Louis surges forward and connects their lips. Using one hand to brace himself on the back of the seat, he uses the other to cup Harry’s face, swiping his thumb against the smooth skin of his cheek.

He’s kissing somebody. He’s kissing a boy. He’s kissing Harry.

Harry makes a soft little sound of surprise, but it’s eons too late for Louis to worry that he’s done the wrong thing. Thankfully, that sound is quickly followed by Harry wrapping an arm around Louis’s waist and bringing him closer. When Harry opens his mouth under him, Louis thinks he might die. He was worried he might not know what to do, but it’s all instinctual. Harry licks into Louis’s mouth experimentally, and Louis responds in kind. It’s all darkness and heat, accentuated by the tangy scent of Harry’s aftershave.

With Harry supporting his body weight, Louis moves his other hand to the back of Harry’s neck, tangling his fingers in the curls he’d been dying to touch.

Louis is the first to pull back, so engulfed by feeling and sensation that he needs a break. He doesn’t untangle himself, though. He’s in the perfect position to lay his head on Harry’s chest, both of them breathing hard.

“I didn’t know I was going to do that,” Louis says, after either twenty seconds or a hundred years.

“If you didn’t, I was going to,” Harry responds, his voice a little raspier, deeper than it was before.

They stay like that for the next few minutes, Harry silently carding his hand through Louis’s hair, Louis feeling his chest move up and down as he breathes.

It should be weird, is the thing. But Louis is blanketed in a comforting sense of inevitability. There can’t possibly be two other people with a stranger trajectory than them, and yet it makes sense, as if they were always headed to this backseat and exploring each other’s mouths in the dark. It’s like Louis is seeing his own future and living it at the same time. He knows that Harry perhaps will never _literally_ be able to understand it, but that they’re somehow still in the same place.

“First stop,” the driver says politely. Louis blushes, remembering that he and Harry were not, in fact, alone when that happened.

It’s Louis’s flat. But does Harry expect him to tell the man to keep driving and take them both to his place? Does he want to end the ride now and be invited in? Louis wouldn’t offend Harry for the entire world, and god, does he want to do this again. But he’s not ready for more.

Louis sits up, as loathe as he is to break contact. He’s still holding Harry’s hand.

“I should go inside,” he says, gently. “But I don’t regret this.”

“Me neither,” Harry says, brushing his thumb against Louis’s knuckles. “Talk tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Louis confirms, releasing his hand and sliding out the door.


	16. Chapter 16

Inside the dark cocoon of his flat, Louis presses his back against the inside of the door and just breathes. After a few moments, he lightly grinds the heels of his palms against his eyelids, keys still dangling from his right hand, willing himself to wake up.

He means what he said to Harry – he doesn’t regret anything that happened tonight. Not between them at least. But if reality is going to reassert itself and right these ludicrous, wonderful wrongs, he hopes it happens right now. It feels like something is hooked into the lower part of his belly and pulling him giddily and dangerously forward – like he’s at the top of the first peak of a rollercoaster, preparing himself for the imminent plunge down, down, down.

Now that he feels it fully, Louis can recognize that he experienced the first naive stirrings of whatever _it_ is the first time he saw grown-up Harry at the pub, bright-eyed and strong. Nerves, he’d thought. Sheer panic. But those things are still there inside him, unchanged. His delirious attraction to Harry has just...drowned them out a little bit.

Louis’s knees are failing him; he’s sliding down the door, inch by tortured inch. So he puts his palms flat against it and pushes himself off, before he ends up in a heap on the floor. Because he’s not confident, in that case, that he’d ever get up. He toes his Vans off on the way to his bedroom suite and peels off his t-shirt – still damp from the humidity of the club and his first ever snogging session, oh my _god_ – as he pads into the bathroom. Louis flicks on the light, butterflies still flapping wildly away in his stomach, and regards himself in the mirror.   

He lightly ruffles the soft, golden hair that starts at his belly button and disappears below the waistband of his jeans, then squeezes the barely-there mounds of flesh above either hip bone. Lifting one limb after the other, Louis examines the dark brown hair that grows thick under his arms. But none of these developments continue to disorient him like the sight of his own face. Louis plants his hands on the marble countertop, leaning so far forward into the mirror – no longer as spotless as it was when he woke up here – that his nose almost makes contact.

It’s become a game to him, searching for the “old” Harry in new Harry’s face. He finds it when Harry laughs a great, honking, uncool laugh at one of Niall’s jokes or when he pouts prettily at a chord progression he can’t quite crack. Even the wonder of each discovery is reassuring.

But Louis struggles seeing the same conflict in his own features. His eyes are the same color and shape they’ve always been, but they just look _wrong_ next to his high, elegant cheekbones. It’s just another reminder that he fell out of a rift somewhere, physically fine but broken on the inside.

Harry will know, someday; he is certain. He will find out and truly believe that Louis isn’t just a blast from the past, but a man out of a time. A literal ghost. Will he still want him then?

“Jesus Christ,” Louis mutters to himself. “Lighten up.”

Louis strips off the creeping dread along with his skinnies, sliding his phone out of his back pocket so it won’t fall onto the unforgiving concrete tiled floor. The screen lights up when he grazes the button and he sees the notification. He hadn’t felt the text arrive – probably wouldn’t feel it if someone slammed a tree trunk into his face right now.

It’s from Harry, of course. And Louis doesn’t have to look back into the mirror to know that he’s flushed all over again.

_I know this is weird, but you got home okay, right?xxx_

Louis bites down on his smile. Harry had watched him, he’s fairly certain, walk from the car to his front door.

_Safe and sound, Curly. I assume you’re not texting me from a ditch somewhere?xxxx_

Hm. Too dark? Fortunately, no time at all passes before the reply arrives.

_Nah, Tuesday is ditch night.xxxx_

Louis exhales a laugh. His fingers are ready to tap out a message, but another comes through before he can.

_Sleep well, Lou. Glad you weren’t axe murdered.x_

*****

After the soundest sleep Louis has fallen into in days, he wakes up rested and new-feeling, all creeping anxiety from the aftermath of his and Harry’s kiss gone. He actually whistles as he traipses around the flat, finally beginning to _enjoy_ some of the ridiculous gadgets his older self had installed around the place. The gratuitously high-tech tea kettle sings when the water boils, matching right up with Louis’s mood.

If Harry had regretted what happened in the car (and on the dance floor, _Jesus),_ he wouldn’t have checked in with Louis last night. He would have – what’s that word Zayn uses, when you pretend someone else doesn’t exist? – _ghosted._ He would have ghosted Louis. Sure, Harry couldn’t avoid him forever, but he could have kept mum, playing it off as a tipsy mistake the next time they saw each other.

Instead.

_Instead._

He made up a dumb excuse to text – to test the waters. The effort of it flatters Louis. Harry accepted his kiss, with more enthusiasm than Louis could have hoped for, even if his decision hadn’t been the spontaneous work of a perfect moment. He almost _wants_ to be embarrassed, that he’d been so incapable of hiding his _need._ But he can’t. Not with the memory of Harry’s hot, pliable mouth, his fingers curling around the back of Louis’s neck.

He can’t think about the fact that his world as he knows it right now would have basically ended if Harry had pulled away. Because he hadn’t and it didn’t. Thank god.

For the second time in less than two weeks, Louis has woken up in a new world. This one involves kissing Harry. It’s his new favorite, by a lot.

His settles at his kitchen table with his Yorkshire, trying to focus fully on its calming aroma and the warmth between his palms. Which is why Louis made a conscious decision to leave his phone in the other room. He’s not going to sit here all day and wait for Harry to text him again. He’s _not._ Except...what if he _already_ texted him, while Louis was humming about his kitchen like a Disney princess? What if Harry was just waiting for a reply, feeling lost and vulnerable? He can’t have that, so he retrieves his phone from his bedside table. Just in case.

Nothing. Just an automated text from his dentist reminding Louis about his scheduled cleaning. (Who exactly books these things, if not his mother? _Himself?_ That doesn’t sound right.)

There’s nothing an hour later, after he’s lazily flipped through all the morning shows. Still nothing when boredom drives him to actually attempt to wade through the pages and pages of Liam’s Glastonbury transcriptions. He can’t make heads nor tails of it, considering he doesn’t even know what a Halsey is.

He’s not worried. Louis only doubted Harry once in his life, and that proved to be a pretty dire mistake. He just misses him, okay?

It’s half past noon when his phone finally lights up with a notification from Instagram, letting Louis know that he has a notification from therealharrystyles. He swipes his thumb to the right, heart thumping away in his chest, revealing the private window between Harry and tommoNME – it’s exactly one message long.

Harry’s sent him a screenshot of his phone. He’s listening to “Drops of Jupiter.”

 _But in a cool way…_ reads the text he’s added to the image.

Louis chuckles softly. What an idiot.

He only hesitates half a second before tapping the heart at the bottom right corner of the window. It bides him some time for composing his reply.

_I KNEW it._

Louis punctuates the sentiment with the laugh-cry emoji. Because truly, that band sucks.

 _You should come by the pub tonight_ . Harry writes back shortly. _If you’re not busy._

Part of the point of going last night was to get Zayn off his back for a little while. Louis figures he’ll spend most of the day recovering anyway – from _his_ Instagram stories, it looks like Zayn shut the place down. The chances of Louis hearing anything from him other than a hook-up recap are slim. He’s free as a bird.

_I’ll be there.x_

****

The day crawls by. Harry is working, Louis knows, and he doesn’t want to bother him. But every hour, he thinks of ten new things he wants to say to Harry, and another ten things he wants to ask him.

Boys in his year were boastful about their romantic exploits, but they didn’t dare talk about how getting to first base made them _feel_. Besides those rom-coms Harry liked to watch, the best point of reference Louis has to the high he’s on right now is the night Gemma went on her first real date. He was sleeping over, and he and Harry were playing some board game when she returned for her 21:30 curfew. She didn’t mind that they were still there listening as she told her mother all about it – how Jason had opened the door for her at the movie theater and took her hand when they walked to the ice cream shop after. She’d sighed and smiled into her hands, and Anne bent down to kiss the top of her head before she headed up to bed. Even Harry – as protective as he was – didn’t dare burst his sister’s bubble of hope and happiness by making fun of the guy.

Two weeks later, Jason had asked another girl to a dance. Gemma only left her room once that evening, eyes red-rimmed, for a glass of water.

It doesn’t always work out. Louis ought to know, with as little as he saw his biological dad. But sometimes it does. Gemma grew up and married a prince, according to Harry.

He stops just outside the pub and empties his lungs with one mighty breath. Maybe he can get this smile under control. Maybe Harry won’t look _fucking_ amazing tonight. Maybe his sheer adoration of this boy won’t be written all over his face for every last patron to see.

But Louis wouldn’t count on it.

He grasps the handle with a shaky hand and swings the door open to a thin crowd. It’s early yet, the after-work clientele still making their way from their offices. Niall raises a hand in greeting when he spots him, and Louis wonders if he knows.

“Alright, Niall?” he asks, taking what he’s now come to think of as “his” seat.

“Ah, can’t complain,” he answers, concentrating on the cocktail shakers he’s rinsing out. “Except that I missed out on that swanky party you went to last night. Harry said it was un-fucking-believable.”

He was probably talking about those drinks. Or the gift bags. Or that famous girl group who showed up halfway through and were whisked right into the VIP area. Still, Louis’s heart leaps into his throat.

“It was pretty fun, yeah,” Louis confirms, with a hopefully cryptic smile.

“Ya know, if they’re ever looking for a place to throw another one – say, a pub with a little character, an approachable quality, some might say…”

“I’ll send them to you,” Louis laughs.

Niall winks at him, and busies himself getting Louis a pint.

“Oi, Lou?” a deep voice calls from the store room.

Louis cranes his neck around the bar to see Harry peeking his head out the door, looking adorably serious.

“Hiya.” Louis is excellent – superb, even – at feigning nonchalance.

“I’m just finishing up some things. D’you mind waiting?”

If Harry would just smile at him, maybe.

“Of course, Haz. Take your time,” Louis says with a tight smile. All he gets back is a grim nod.

And take his time, he does. Empires fall, the leaves change – Louis orders a sandwich and chips and ignores three texts from Zayn. Still, Harry doesn’t emerge. Louis considers asking Niall what in the fucking hell he has Harry dealing with back there, but he doesn’t want to sound needy or anything. Instead, he makes vaguely assenting grunts to Niall’s loud pronouncements about football and eats his dinner.

Niall is in the middle of an Arsenal defense monologue when Louis feels a hand between his shoulder blades. He looks over his shoulder to see Harry peering down at him, still far too solemn for Louis’s liking. A light sheen of sweat makes his collarbones shine where his leather jacket lays open. He smells fantastic.

“’m sorry about that. Want to take a walk?”

It’s not like Louis had expected Harry to come running into his arms – nor would he have minded it. But he’d expected a warmer welcome than this. Panic begins flowing through his veins, the momentum pushing Louis up off of his stool. Maybe Gemma would have known Jason was about to dump her, if she’d just read the signs. Harry probably invited him here so he could tell him in person that last night was a mistake.

Louis hasn’t spoken – honestly, he’s afraid he’ll cry if he tries – but Harry takes his standing as a yes.

“Ni,” he calls to the other end of the bar. “I’m taking my break now.”

Niall takes them both in and smirks, looking like the cat that got the canary. “Sure, H. Have fun, you two,” he sing-songs.

So Niall definitely knows. What the fuck though.

Louis walks ahead of Harry towards the door. Any second now, Harry will put a hand right above his tailbone, like he did last night. But no such contact is initiated, and Louis is rapidly losing hope.

When they get outside, Louis notices that Harry’s hands are in his pockets. But at least he’s here. And they’re alone. Alone-ish.

Harry is looking at him strangely – wistfully. As if he wants to kiss Louis, but won’t let himself. Everything in Louis’s body is screaming at him to close the distance between them and wipe out whatever doubt is making Harry act this way. But he’d taken his own life in his hands on the back of three fruity cocktails and Bruno Mars – none of which are here to guide him now. Still, he licks his lips. It’s a reflex.

Harry claws his hand over his face and groans. Without any other warning, he starts walking down the street.

“Harry. Harry!” Louis practically shouts as he speed-walks after him, too confused to be careful. “What’s wrong? Hey. Will you stop and tell me?”

Harry halts and Louis narrowly avoids slamming into the back of him. He turns to face Louis, expression softer than it was a moment ago.

“Fuck, Louis, I’m. I’m sorry. I don’t know, to be honest with you.” He’s not making that part up at least. He looks pained.

“Did I do something wrong?” Louis asks, desperately. “Was it...was it not good?”

Harry darts out a hand and grasps one of Louis’s.

“No, love,” he says, voice thick. “Please don’t. You were perfect.”

Louis shifts his hand so they’re grasping fingers. Harry doesn’t let go.

“And I meant what I said to you. I don’t regret it.” He runs his free hand through his hair and breaks their eye contact. “But you scare me, Louis. A lot, actually.”

“What?” Louis’s voice sounds small and distant in his own head. Harry worries his bottom lip, still gazing out into the distance.

He tugs on Harry’s hand to bring him back. “Why do...why would you be scared of _me?_ ”

Harry’s eyes bore into his now. “I thought you knew,” he whispers. “You don’t know?”

Louis is completely lost now. Last night, they’d miraculously been on the _exact_ same page. And now he’s over in some other book.

“What, Harry?” he asks, fearing the answer for some reason. “What did you think I knew?”

Harry sighs heavily. But Louis takes it as a good sign that he doesn’t drop his hand, instead tucking Louis’s arm under his own and setting off to some destination. Half a silent block later, Louis sees it. A tiny park ringed by birch trees, catty-corner from where they’re standing. Harry leads him inside and bids him to sit.

The bench is so cold that it chills Louis’s thighs through his jeans. A minor detail. He waits for Harry to speak. There’s not another soul around. Not in this hostile weather.

He concentrates on the way their arms are pressed together, hoping the contact grounds Harry too.

And after a few torturous beats, Harry starts to tell his story.

“I don’t remember exactly when I realized I was gay,” Harry begins, staring down at his knees. “I think I always knew, even before I had a word for it.”

He glances up at Louis, who nods encouragingly. This sounds familiar.

“And that’s one of the reasons I liked us so much, you know? I knew I was different from a lot of other boys, and I knew I couldn’t...fake it. But with you, I never had to fake anything. I could just be myself. You never judged me and you never made fun of me. Until Zayn showed up.”

His words cut Louis to the bone.

Louis grips Harry’s knee and stares fiercely into his eyes, because he has to know how fucking _deeply_ he regrets this.

“I was an arsehole, Harry. You have no idea how much I wish I could go back and fix it. I–”

“No,” Harry cuts him off, firmly but gently. “I know you do. I believe that, with all my heart. Kids do fucking stupid things, Louis. That’s not what this is about.”

“Okay,” Louis whispers, silently vowing not to interrupt again.

“The point is that I knew there was something about me that other people might not accept. And it all started to make a lot more sense to me around the time I turned 14. I started noticing guys – always guys. And I wasn’t ashamed. But I also wasn’t, uh...I wasn’t strong. Not like you.”

Louis squeezes his knee.

“So I didn’t tell anyone, except Gem. And I made her swear on mum’s life she would keep my secret. Anyway, most of my friends were girls. If I called one of them my girlfriend for a little while, nobody asked questions.”

Harry inhales deeply. “And then there you were: Louis Tomlinson, out and proud. And completely untouchable. And I’m not – I’m sure you went through some shit too. I don’t want to erase that. But to the outside world...to a kid in the closet...it seemed like you had everything.”

Louis can’t stop himself. “Definitely not everything,” he murmurs.

“I know,” Harry answers, and Louis doesn’t like the guilt he hears in it. “Anyway, I’m sure you remember the utter disaster that was my outing.”

_Jesus fucking Christ._

He was there. He’s supposed to know. But the park is spinning around him and Louis can’t manage the shock that he’s sure is showing on his face.

“Right, that.” Harry’s gaze drops again. “Zayn found out, and he basically told the entire school.”

Louis has to commit a murder. It’s the only solution.

“I think in some bizarre way he thought he was doing me a favor.” Harry’s face twists with emotion. “It was a shortcut, I guess. But that was supposed to be my choice. And I know I was slow...but we’re not all on the same schedule, right? At least people left me alone, after that initial gossip died down.” He smiles ruefully. “It could have been worse.”

Tears prick at Louis’s eyes as he thinks about sweet, guileless Harry having all that taken away from him. He’s never felt more despicable.

“I should have stopped him,” he grits out.

And then his heartbeat slows to a crawl as an even more terrible reality presents itself: What if Louis hadn’t just _let_ Zayn out Harry? What if he’d actually _helped_ him?

That can’t be. He wouldn’t. He fucking wouldn’t.

But Louis could say that about a lot of things he’s learned about this mysterious, appalling version of himself. He hangs onto Harry’s words – that he blames Zayn, and not Louis. He has to have a reason for that. Otherwise, there’s no way in hell he’d be sitting here, potential record deal or not.

“What did Zayn tell you?” Harry asks quietly.

His fury turns to helplessness, because Louis can’t give Harry any answer that can satisfy him.

“I know you won’t be able to believe this,” he says, tears sliding down his cheeks now. “But I don’t remember. It’s like it never happened.”

Harry seems to accept that, god knows why.

“I always thought he’d told you.”

“Told me what?”

“He found…a notebook.” One corner of his mouth quirks up into a half-smile. “Grabbed it when it fell out of my locker. Before I could pick it up.”

Louis tilts his head, not quite following.

“I was using it for lyrics. I wrote about different things, but there were definitely some songs, about, uh...you.”

Why would Harry be writing songs about Louis, years after they’d nearly stopped speaking entirely? Louis can sense the answer drifting on the wind, just out of his reach. He searches Harry’s face for it.

“The only thing worse than not being your friend, Louis, was having this big, hopeless crush on you,” Harry laughs, too loudly. “It was pretty tragic, to be honest.”

Louis’s jaw literally drops.

It’s inconceivable, after how Louis treated him. He didn’t deserve the love of someone like Harry, who just kept giving, even when nothing came back.

“I was so cruel to you,” he marvels. “And you still _liked_ me?”

Harry shrugs, sheepishly. “I thought I could save you from the popular kids.”

All Louis can do is stare at this boy. He saw him at his worst but never gave up on him.

“You were still you,” Harry continues. “You were so smart and funny and talented – I always went to see your band, when you played. I _was_ really angry at you. For a long time. But, uh, I was pretty idealistic? I just figured that someday you’d realize we were meant to be together and it would be all...fixed,” he says with a hand wave. “Stupid, I know.”

Harry’s eyes drift downwards again, but Louis reaches out and catches his cheek with his palm. He carefully turns Harry’s face back to him.

“Harry...can I tell you a secret?”

Harry bobs his head in Louis’s hand.

Louis smiles tenderly. “You’re the sweetest guy I’ve ever known.”

The cloud breaks, and he’s rewarded with Harry’s froggiest smile, his green eyes glittering with unshed tears.

This time it’s Harry who moves forward. He copies Louis, his big, calloused hand coming to rest on the sharp angles of Louis’s face as he captures his lips. It’s close-mouthed and less charged than last night’s kiss, but Louis wouldn’t trade the intimacy of it for anything.

He tastes salt suddenly, and he’s not even sure which of them is crying now. Probably both.


	17. Chapter 17

Liam Payne loves his job.

Sure, the pay is shit, the hours are worse, and the few friends he keeps in touch with from his old life take the piss when they meet for drinks. But he’s happy.

He’s always loved music more anything – certainly more than maths, which is how he and his father hit their impasse. Studying journalism or music theory at university was out of the question, which is how Liam ended up at one of the U.K.’s most lucrative hedge funds by the time he was 22. By 23, he was completely burnt out.

His grandfather had been ill for quite some time when he passed, and Liam had spent some of his little free time sitting by the man’s bedside and listening to his stories. He’d tried not to sound ungrateful for his position when work came up – his dad just wanted the best for best for Liam, after all – but his unhappiness must have been obvious. Grandfather had ample time to refine his last will and testament before the end. Next to Liam’s name was a hefty amount and a command: “Go and do what you love.”

And so he did.

It had taken some work to convince hiring managers at the various music publications he’d applied to that, yes, someone who once pulled in a six-figure salary would really accept an internship with a stipend. He’d put together an online portfolio of his clippings – the album reviews and concert recaps he’d covertly written for his own music blog between economics courses. It was either that or the effusive post-interview thank you note that pushed him over the edge with the _NME_ recruiter, making Liam the eldest entry-level assistant at the magazine by far. Of course, he doesn’t mind.

He’d hit the ground running, so to speak, knowing that his work ethic could potentially make up for his lack of experience. Liam arrived early, stayed late, and did his best to make himself essential to the company. All his efforts paid off the day he was appointed personal intern to Louis Tomlinson, a hot-shot staff writer with a bit of a reputation. Mostly for being a shit.

Having had the honor of being screamed at by red-faced investors on the odd occasion, Liam wasn’t intimidated. And nothing Louis did really surprised him – not the late-night emails or the mixing of hangover cures at the office – it was all part and parcel of being the lackey of someone who got all the leeway he asked for. Nothing surprised Liam, that is, until the day Louis invited him into his home and started asking him about his life.

It was like Louis was a different person that day. It could be that it takes him time to warm up to people, and that Liam had proven himself over time to be worthy of his trust and attention. But something tells Liam that that’s not the whole story. And he’s not the only person at _NME_ who’s noticed Louis’s new leaf. He’s overheard Zayn, Louis’s closest friend and only real rival, talking about it in the breakroom. He did not sound pleased.

It’s been dead exciting for Liam though. Suddenly he’s responsible for more than setting up meetings and tedious transcriptions. He’s helping Louis break a new artist, one who they both really believe in. Liam was struck by Harry’s talent immediately, and meeting the bloke only made him more willing to do whatever he can to push his career forward.

It’s the most engaged he’s seen Louis since Liam started at NME, in their strategy meetings. Liam can sense how determined his boss is to get this right. And while he can see that this isn’t pure nepotism, his interest isn’t entirely impersonal either. There’s some history with them, he gathers, though Louis hasn’t told Liam the whole story, and certainly doesn’t owe it to him. But it’s sweet, isn’t it? How Louis’s entire face lights up when he sees Harry’s name on his iPhone screen?

Liam hums a tune as he makes his way from the bank of intern desks down to Louis’s office. The boss is working remotely today, but there’s still plenty to be done.

He’s walking with such purpose that he doesn’t notice Jade the copy editor until it’s too late and all the proofs she was carrying are spread out all over the floor.

“Oh!” Liam exclaims. “Jade, are you okay? I’m so sorry.”

They both bend down to collect the pages, nearly knocking heads when they do.

Jade smiles up at him weakly, looking stressed. “No harm done. Just, mind the speed limit in the corridors from now on?”

Liam hands her his messy half of the stack. “Absolutely. Sorry, again.”

She rises quickly, and is off again with one last look at Liam and a straightening of her skirt.

Still crouched on the ground, Liam takes a breath and settles himself. That was embarrassing.

And that’s when he hears it.

“Don’t worry about him,” a voice says quietly. “Louis will come through. Just let me deal with it.”

Something about the tone of the speaker tells Liam that this conversation isn’t for anyone else’s ears, so he scoots back six inches, behind the door frame of the office he and Jade collided in front of. He peers up at the nameplate. Zayn Malik.

“Just...include me on that email, alright?” Zayn continues. “I’ll make sure it gets done. Ricochet is as good as in, I fucking swear to you.” There’s a pause, then Liam hears him exhale, meaning he must have ended the call.

Then, footsteps. Shit. Liam scrambles to his feet just in time for Zayn to step out into the hallway.

“Intern,” Zayn acknowledges, before popping his sunglasses in front of his eyes and setting off. Sometimes it pays to be so inconsequential.

Louis was a bit of a mystery, but Zayn – well, he was relatively easy to pin down. Office gossip only confirmed what Liam had already quickly surmised, which is that Zayn had crowned himself king of the magazine on the very day he arrived. His arrogance was as legendary as his profiles, which he somehow pulled off in three-hour post-partying writing binges. Zayn and Louis were inseparable, he’d heard, but not in Liam’s recent experience. If there’s discord there, it’s really none of his business. But Liam still allows himself some indignation on Louis’s behalf. He deserves better than his “best friend” talking shit about him just because he’s backed out of a few all-nighters. And who the hell is Ricochet? A Jesse & the Rippers cover band?

Fortunately, he makes it to Louis’s office without further incident, heading straight to his desk. There are some images on the local server that Liam thinks Louis should show the photographer shooting Harry’s headshots. But the interns don’t have regular access to those files, so Louis had given him the okay to grab them from his work laptop. Liam bends over the desk and keys in Louis’s password.

The screen brightens, Louis’s email client maximized. Liam is about to open the finder window, but he can’t help it. His eyes go straight there.

The subject line of the most recent email in Louis’s inbox is simply “Ricochet.” It’s from a sender Liam doesn’t recognize. And it’s already been read, it seems.

Liam can probably count on one hand the times he’s been knowingly dishonest as an adult. In fact, his integrity is one of the many reasons he wasn’t cut out for the hedge fund biz. But the pull here is too strong. Something is up with Louis and Zayn. Liam doesn’t like how Zayn is talking about his boss – his _friend_ – like he’s managing him. Maybe he can help. If he just knew what was going on.

So Liam clicks. He hates himself, but he clicks.

He pulls Louis’s chair out from under the desk and perches on it, without taking his eyes off of the screen.

It’s bad.

_Lou and Z:_

_Just circling back (again) on what we discussed. Zayn has delivered on his side of the agreement, so we’re just waiting on that single review. I trust the deposit went through?_

_Since there’s been a delay on your end, we’re making another request. The band would kill at the NME Breakouts concert, I’m sure you agree. If you can secure them a spot, there’s a bonus with your names on it._

_Ben_

Liam exes out of the email in a panic. There’s no room for doubt, as much as he wishes there were. Zayn and Louis are wrapped up in some kind of pay-for-play scheme. They’re accepting money for complimentary content. And they’re not just flouting the concept of journalistic integrity as writers, they’re putting the entire publication at risk. If anyone ever found out, it would be a huge scandal. _NME_ ’s reputation would take a hit that could take years to come back from.

But that’s not what’s troubling Liam the most.

This band, whoever they are, wants Harry’s Breakouts slot. And they’re willing to pay for it. Meanwhile, Harry is working his ass off to impress James – to _earn_ the opportunity. He has no idea what he’s up against.

If Louis is playing both sides of this, it would confirm everything Liam had been told about him but was unwilling to believe – namely, that he doesn’t give a shit about quality anymore, only star-fucking. It still doesn’t make _sense_ though, that Louis would be futilely putting all this time and energy into Harry’s career, just, what? To get into his pants?

Nothing about this tracks, but all of it makes Liam anxious. At the top of his mind is the innocent person caught up in all of this, who doesn’t deserve to be a pawn in whatever game Louis is playing.

He’ll probably get fired. He may have to beg for his old job back and get his suits out of storage. But Liam has to warn Harry.


	18. Chapter 18

“Is it too much?”

Harry steps out of the storage room, and Louis inhales sharply. He gasps, is what he does.

He’d thought he’d come up with a brilliant idea, after Harry mentioned that his mate Adam was a photographer. Professional photos to go with the demo – it would boost Harry’s legitimacy in the eyes of James. Having a face to go with the name would personalize his music. And, Louis figures, it wouldn’t hurt one bit to have some artully shot proof of Harry’s gorgeousness to prove that he’s the total package.

He’s pictured it himself many times, how Harry would look underneath the professional lights at Brixton Academy. With a couple of portraits in hand, James could picture it too.

But, as it turns out, Louis hadn’t really thought this through.

Because Harry is standing in front of him, arms spread wide for appraisal, in the most sheer and sparkly top Louis has ever seen.

The black blouse buttons to the neck and has long sleeves, but still manages to be obscene. The slim fit barely skims over Harry’s upper body, and, as previously stated, the fabric is fucking see-through.

Louis should be answering Harry, not silently counting the previously uncharted tattoos he can make out through the shirt. (He’s already spent as much time as he discreetly could admiring the swallows on Harry’s chest and the cluster of designs on both forearms.)

“You hate it,” Harry concludes, looking crestfallen. He crosses his hand just above his tailbone, chicken-winging his elbows, which pulls the fabric tighter across his midsection. And there’s the outline of a butterfly spanning his abs, clear as day. Louis reluctantly decides that it would be inappropriate to thank him.

“I _really_ don’t, Haz,” he says, hopping off his stool and moving as close to Harry as he dares.

“But you don’t love it.”

He looks even more like a constellation up close, and Louis itches to touch. He reaches out and grasps the neck bow lightly, letting the fabric slide through his hand as he drops it back down again. Harry watches the whole thing intently.

“This shirt,” Louis begins, “is the prettiest shirt I’ve ever seen. It deserves you.” It’s the highest compliment he can think of.

It works, because Harry’s smiling again, and it’s become abundantly clear to Louis that that’s all he’ll ever want. Harry picks up Louis’s hand and brings it to his lips, planting a kiss at the very center of his palm.

“Couldn’t tell at first,” Harry murmurs. “You looked a little...stricken.”

Louis laughs, struggling to keep his eyes on Harry’s face. “Could’ve warned me, couldn’t you?”

“About what?” Harry pouts, looking down at his torso for clues.

Louis feels a furious blush creep onto his cheeks. “About the fact that you can see straight through it?” His voice falls to a whisper. “I can see your _nipples,_ Harry.”

Harry sniffs, amused. “Have the surplus, figured I should put them to work.”

“Where do you even _buy_ something like this?”

“Nick lent it to me. He’s a beast at a sample sale. Paid off another shopper 10 quid to get the last one, and he’s never even worn it.”

Funny how much more charitable Louis feels towards Nick now that he and Harry are...whatever they are.

“They’re going to love it, Harry. They’re going to love _you.”_ Louis didn’t expect it, how saying those last two words to this person, even in this context, would speed up his pulse. He turns back to the bar, afraid that it shows on his face – how Harry might retreat again if he noticed how much Louis is affected by him.

“Hello?”

“Adam!”

Harry goes bounding over to the pub’s front door to great the newcomer, a tall, brunette man in a black t-shirt and plaid pants. They share a back-slapping hug after Adam drops his equipment bag carefully on the ground. And Louis is absolutely _not_ admiring how Harry’s back muscles strain against that mosquito net he’s wearing. He’s not.

It’d been Liam’s idea to shoot Harry in the pub. (Which, he should be here by now.) For as unremarkable as it is when you look at it all together, he’d figured that its brick walls would make for a rugged backdrop, and that they wouldn’t have to augment the moody lighting much. Plus, Niall gave them full run of the place for a couple hours before opening, and anyway, The Cross Keys is a part of Harry’s story. And they’re not just selling the music, Louis’s intern had reminded him, they’re selling Harry too. He doesn’t like the sound of that much, but this isn’t about him.

The upshot for Louis was that he knew Harry would be more comfortable here, in a familiar space with only people that he knows. He’s pushed him enough this week. There’s newness everywhere – exciting, scary, vulnerable newness. Today is a day to take it easy.

_Tell that to Harry’s shirt._

Once introductions are taken care of and Harry’s poured them all tall glasses of ice-cold water from Niall’s beverage gun, Adam takes a leisurely walk around the space to find their first set-up.

Louis and Harry are side-by-side, just watching him do his artistic vision thing, when Zayn rings. Louis pulls the vibrating phone out of his pocket and quickly declines the call. Harry reaches over and squeezes his fingers gently. Louis looks up to meet his eyes, and Harry gives him a small, grateful smile. Phone back in his jeans, he can feel the second vibration. A voicemail, which he’ll also ignore. Maybe if he does it for long enough, this will all go away.

“Okay, Haz, I’m ready for you.”

Adam wants Harry in front of the brick wall at the far end of the pub. He’s balanced one of the moveable stage lights on a low beam, so it’s pointed down at Harry, but far enough away that the light disperses pleasantly instead of washing him out. He positions Harry where he wants him, and then tells him to relax and “have fun with it.”

Harry catches Louis’s eye over Adam’s shoulder as the photographer leans down to pick up his camera, and gives him a look that says, “This feels ridiculous.”

But then Adam’s upright again and snapping away. And Harry’s expression is so, so different. His gaze focuses on the lens, just shy of seductively. His jaw steels, making his face appear even more chiseled than it normally does. He doesn’t smile, but he allows his lips to part just a fraction of an inch. The whole effect is...debilitating to say the least.

Okay, so Harry’s possibly, secretly a model. But he still needs Adam’s direction.

“You can move around a little bit, Haz,” he says. Harry changes his stance slightly, and cranes his head upwards, exposing the throat Louis hasn’t had the chance to get his mouth on yet. Right now, he’s seriously regretting it. “Thaaaat’s it. Perfect.”

The mix Louis put together last night just for this occasion plays on softly from the speakers above them, contributing to the zen-like atmosphere. Adam isn’t one of those photographers who shouts and cajoles and flatters to get what he wants. He mostly lets Harry do his own thing, only providing a suggestion here and there. And Harry gets into the rhythm of it quickly, effortlessly adapting to new setups as he sings along with Stevie Nicks under his breath. He looks every inch the star he deserves to be.

Louis lays low and tries to stay out of the way, but his heart sings every time Harry eagerly seeks him out between flashes, looking for approval. He’s only too happy to give it.

They’ve almost wrapped when Niall arrives to start opening up the place. Adam’s just grabbing a few final close-ups of Harry posed in front of the liquor bottles.

Louis is a little surprised to see Liam file in after him. He’d assumed he’d be the type who’d rather not show up at all than to show up late. As it is, it’s definitely weighing on him. The stress is radiating off of him in waves, poor sod.

Liam stands nervously just a few feet inside the door, and Louis can’t think why, for the life of him. He’d call Liam over right now, if he didn’t fear disturbing Adam and Harry’s work. His intern definitely saw him as he walked in, but now he’s avoiding Louis’s eyes and staring directly at Harry.

“I think we’ve got it,” Adam announces. Harry releases his body back into his normal posture and grins with relief. He and Adam do that no-contact high five thing that he and Sarah did back at the studio – a uni in-joke. But before Louis can start feeling sorry for himself about the aspects of Harry’s life that he didn’t get to share, his boy appears next to him and pecks him sweetly on the cheek.

“That was actually fun,” he says softly into Louis’s ear.

“Yeah?” Louis breathes, turning into his scent.

“Yeah. We should get you up there sometime,” Harry says with an eyebrow raise.

“Don’t think I’d be as good at it as you.”

Harry looks Louis up and down with a shamelessness that makes little pools of sweat sprout up at Louis’s temples. “I don’t know. You’re built for it, I’d say.”

It’s continuously overwhelming, that Louis can be with Harry like this – that this is how they _talk_ to each other now. It should be strange, but it’s the easiest transition Louis has made so far in this new life. All hesitancy was forgotten the first time they kissed. Now, any time they’re not touching or looking at each other is time wasted. He’d feel out of control with it, if Harry didn’t seem similarly giddy.

“I’m going to head out, Harry. Louis,” Adam calls, zipping up his camera bag.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for a drink?” Niall offers from the bar. “On me, of course.”

“I’d love to, but I squeezed you guys in as it is. I’m supposed to be in Notting Hill–” Adam checks his watch “–in about ten minutes. Not going to happen, but I’m at least going to give it go. I _should_ have a chance to go through these and pull out some selects tomorrow morning.”

Harry detaches from Louis, who, wow, hopes _that_ gets easier.

“Adam, I can’t thank you enough for this,” he says, walking over to Adam, arms open for a hug. They embrace, then Adam heaves his bag up to his shoulder, and Harry continues walking him to the door. Liam is still there, scrolling through his phone in the entryway, much to Louis’s embarrassment. He should have gone to save the guy, but who can blame him for being a little distracted?

Liam looks up from his phone as they reach the door, and he watches as Adam makes his exit, after one more fist bump from Harry. Then, he leans over to Harry and whispers something in his ear. Harry assents to whatever it is, and Louis watches, bewildered, as the two of them step outside together too.

He wasn’t asked to follow. Liam barely even _acknowledged_ Louis when he arrived. What could he possibly have to say to Harry that wouldn’t include Louis too? He buries the urge to follow them and demand to know what’s going on. He’s embarrassed by the childishness of it. He’ll be fine right here – as long as Harry fills him in on every detail when he gets back.

Louis visits the toilet. He hears about Niall’s semi-disastrous date. (“She thought _Super Troopers_ was _stupid_ , Louis.”) He downs two more glasses of water to wash down the pretzels that he doesn’t have the heart to tell Niall are bordering on stale.

Then 20 minutes have passed, and he’s had enough.

“Be right back.”

It all _must_ be fine. There’s really no reason to worry. Except that Harry tried to bolt once already.

Louis picks up speed, power-walking to the pub’s entrance, heart thumping ominously in his chest.

He flings the door open too hard. It startles Harry, who’s slumped down onto the sidewalk, back pressed against the wall of the pub.

His eyes fly up to meet Louis’s, and it’s clear he’s been crying. Liam is nowhere to be found.  

“Jesus! Are you alright?” Louis crouches down to check for injuries. “Did they take Liam?”

Harry coldly bats his hand away as Louis reaches for his bicep, but he doesn’t speak. And he’s now definitely avoiding Louis’s gaze.

Louis is becoming a little frantic now. “Harry, what’s _wrong?_ What happened? Please talk to me, alright?”

Harry snorts, like something’s funny.

Louis pulls his hands back into his body. Harry clearly doesn’t want to be touched right now. But there’s no way he’s leaving him here like this.

“Talk to me, Harry,” he repeats. He tries to sound calm, but it just comes out plaintive.

A few agonizing moments pass. Then Harry looks up, lips bitten and eyes blazing. “Why don’t you talk to _me,_ Louis?”

Louis jerks back like he’s been slapped, mouth agape.

“I do. I _am._ What are you asking?”

Harry scoffs and shakes his head.

“And you’re still lying to me. Fuck you.”

Louis’s mind races, trying to connect the dots from the photoshoot to Liam behaving so strangely to Harry here on the ground, acting very much like he hates him. He’s keeping so many secrets from Harry – and a fair amount from himself – that he doesn’t even know which one is causing Harry to look at him like this.

Then shame and fear course through him in equal measures as one horrific possibility moves ahead of the pack.

Harry is waiting for him to say something. He’s giving Louis a chance to come clean, even if he’s very fucking tardy. But Louis can’t find his voice when he’s standing in the middle of a burning building.

“Fine,” Harry spits. “I don’t know what I expected. You’ve always been a coward, haven’t you, Louis?”

“I–” Louis chokes out a sob.

“I was the one loose end, right? You’re on this bullshit apology tour. You can’t live with the idea that anyone on the face of this earth might not think you’re perfect. So you made _me_ think I’d gotten everything I’d ever wanted.”

He lets out a long, shuddering breath.

“But none of it was real. Right, Louis? Fucking none of it. You’ve been feeding me lines and doing anything else you could think of to make me _believe_ that I had a chance. And the whole time, you’re in someone else’s pocket?”

Louis’s knees are shaking so furiously that he finally buckles all the way to the sidewalk.

“It was real,” he pleads through tears. _“We’re_ real.”

“Did you want to be my hero?” Harry asks, unmoved. “That was your plan, wasn’t it? I’d lose the spot fair and square, but I’d forgive you anyway. And you could stop hating yourself.”

“I didn’t mean...I didn’t _want_ any of this to happen,” Louis tries. His whole life is slipping through his fingers. “I don’t– _fuck_ , I screwed this up. It’s all my fault _,_ I _know_ that. But I never wanted to hurt you, Harry. Not again.”

“Was this some misunderstanding?” Harry asks, matter-of-factly. “Did Liam get it wrong? Are you not under some financial obligation to make sure I _didn’t_ get this show?”

Louis shakes his head, face wet with tears.

“Then I don’t see how you can expect me to believe you.”

And that’s that. Harry makes his way to his feet, and Louis feels as helpless as he did watching him stumble back to his house on that snowy December night. He doesn’t reach down a hand to help Louis up off the pavement. But he does turn around one last time before he re-enters the pub.

“I just need to know one thing,” Harry says, looking down on him. “Why did you have to kiss me?”

“Why?” Louis repeats, stunned that he has to ask.

“What was even the _point?_ Because if it was to make it easier to manipulate me...I think that’s pretty sick.”

Suddenly Louis realizes – he’s the villain in this story. No, it wasn’t _this_ him who cut the deal in the first place. But he ignored it, hoping without cause that he could will it out of existence. And he went ahead and started this thing with Harry, even though Harry deserves honesty and every other damn thing. And now he’s going to walk away from Louis – for forever this time – believing that holding him was just a part of the plan and not the most profound experience of Louis’s life so far. It’s unacceptable.

Louis stands up. He needs to look Harry in the face for this.

“Harry, I don’t know what’s happening to me.” Louis cautiously places his palm over Harry’s heart and says a silent prayer of thanks when he doesn’t push him away. “Everything is a fucking mess. The only time I’m not confused is when I’m with you. I kissed you because I didn’t have a choice. Because you’re _everything_ , and I’ve never felt this way about anybody. Ever.”

Harry starts to cry again, but he doesn’t say a word.

“I always thought I was going to be your hero, Harry. But it turns out you’re mine.”

Harry reaches up and takes Louis’s hand. For one brief, shining moment, Louis thinks he’s going to hold it. Instead, Harry removes it from his chest and lets it drop. Then he opens the door and disappears inside the pub, leaving Louis completely alone.


	19. Chapter 19

The sun is sinking below the London skyline when Louis wakes, head throbbing and eyes burning. He doesn’t remember how he got home, only that a hard-faced Niall had opened the pub’s front door soon after Harry went back inside, and thrust Louis’s jacket out to him without a word.

Somehow he ended up back in his flat. His. He wants to believe that it’s not actually – that it belongs to a terrible friend. An ungrateful son. A selfish, unscrupulous arsehole whose only enduring relationship is mutually poisonous. But at long last, Louis has been forced to accept that they are one and the same.

Somehow he’d managed to kick off his jeans before crawling into bed and crying himself to sleep, which is a small mercy. But he still feels like fresh hell – achy, dehydrated, and raw. A wave of nausea crashes over him and he rapidly disentangles himself from the sheets. Louis scrambles to the bathroom, drops to his knees, and empties his stomach into the toilet. He doesn’t trust his legs to carry him, even when the heaving subsides. So he inches himself sideways until his back is pressed against the wall, then draws his knees into his stomach, folds his arms over them, and lays his head carefully on top.

He replays the conversation in his head over and over again. (No wonder his brain is trying valiantly to escape his skull.) But no matter how many times he forces himself to relive it, he can’t think of a single thing he could have said to Harry to make him feel any less betrayed. His intentions just don’t matter, not when the outcome can’t be changed. Harry is the most understanding person Louis knows, but even he has his limit. And Louis danced all over it.

Louis groans loudly, both relieved and despondent over the improbability of anyone hearing him. It had only taken a few days for him to build and spectacularly lose a family – possibly a record of some kind.

He had believed for a while that the universe had reorganized itself to bring him and Harry back together. Now he knows the truth: The universe is actually punishing him, and the hopelessness that hangs around his neck now is an appropriately brutal sentence.

After an indeterminate amount of time, he uses the bathroom counter to pull himself to his feet. He has no idea what happens next, but he’s fairly confident that it can’t happen on the cold tile floor. So Louis pads back through his bedroom, eyeing the expensive track jackets he’d tried on and then strewn all over the floor in distaste. He hates how clinical and anonymous this place is, because it’s so in line with what he’s come to realize about himself. He’s sold out everything that’s interesting about him in pursuit of money and power. And if he knows anything, he knows that that’s not the kind of person Harry is supposed to be with.

Louis searches his jeans and then jacket pocket for his phone. He reluctantly opens it up to find just 12% battery – he’d been in no position to remember something as trivial as charging it last night. It’s enough juice to scroll through his notifications, unfortunately.

There’s a text from Liam that reads, _Don’t worry, I asked James to assign me to someone else._

There’s a litany of texts from Zayn, demanding Louis _man the fuck up_ and _stop being such a prick_.

There’s nothing from Harry, which stings, even though Louis knew that would be the case.

And there’s one missed call and voicemail. From his mum.

Louis almost drops the phone, fumbling to access his voice messages as quickly as he humanly can. He’s never been so desperate to hear her voice. And somehow she knew that he needed her. After all this time, she still knew.

Unless she’s calling Louis to remind him that he abandoned her as soon as he got a taste of a lifestyle she couldn’t provide. He has no defense for that either – only a bottomless well of disgrace and shame.

He won’t know until he listens.

Headache forgotten, Louis’s heart takes over. It pounds against his ribcage as Louis opens up the voicemail and hits “Speaker.” He sinks down to sit on the bed, turning the volume up as far as it can go.

“Louis?” the message starts. Louis claps a hand over his mouth, overcome. “Love? I turned on my service this morning and I heard your message. Are you alright? I’m going to keep my phone on, so just call as soon as you can and tell me you’re okay.” It’s silent for a beat, and Louis thinks the message is over. But his mum adds one last thing, clear and unwavering: ”I’m here, darling.”

And that’s all it takes for Louis to make out a small point of light in the distance. A flood of relief carries him just a little bit closer to it. His mum is out there. And though she hasn’t always had the power to _solve_ his problems, she does have a knack for mending his heartbreaks, and for convincing him to just keep going, no matter how bad it all seems.

There’s no time to steel himself to speak with her, though Louis doesn’t know how he’ll be able to bear it if she expresses the hurt she has every right to feel. She sounded scared in her message. Of course she is, after Louis’s frantic voicemail. Making her wait another second would be selfish of him. And he’s had quite enough of that side of himself.

Louis releases his lower back muscles until his torso is stretched flat on the bed, bare feet still flat on the floor. He pushes the air out of his lungs through pursed lips, and poises his finger over screen. He closes his eyes and lets the call rip, then holds the phone up to his ear.

It rings twice before she picks up.

“Hello?” she says, slightly wild with worry.

Louis bites back a watery smile.

“...Mum?” he asks faintly, his voice weakened from hours of weeping.

“Oh, love,” she soothes. “Whatever’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

“No! No,” he says, trying and failing to sound reassuring. “I’m not...in hospital or anything. I’m sorry I made you worry.”

“You hush about that. That’s my job, Louis.”

Her kindness only intensifies his guilt. She was meant to have a better son than him.

“I’m sorry about everything,” he sobs, floodgates now swinging wide open. “I’m sorry, and I miss you _so_ much. So much, Mum. You have no idea. I ruined all of it. And I don’t blame you if you hate me. I think _I_ hate me.”

He pauses to take a gulp of breath, heart cracking wide open as he hears his mother sniffling on the other end of the line.

“Louis William Tomlinson. You are my baby, and I could never, _ever_ hate you. No matter what you do. Do you understand me?”

He nods, tears sliding sideways down his cheekbones and onto his duvet. “Yeah, okay. Yeah. But why though? After everything?”

Jay sighs. “Because that’s what unconditional love is, darling. If you only love someone during the good times, it doesn’t really count, does it?”

Louis’s mind drifts to Harry, writing love songs for a boy who pretended not to know him when they saw each other at school.

He shifts onto on his side, protectively curling in around the phone. “You’re not even mad at me?”

To his shock, she laughs warmly. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But we don’t have to talk about all of that now. I’m just glad to be speaking to you. I missed you too, love. Every minute of every day.”

“Me too,” Louis whispers.

“It sounds like something’s happened,” she says, cautiously. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

_More than anything._

There’s so much he wants to make her understand, but it hardly seems feasible. So he starts right where it hurts the most.

“I messed things up with Harry again.”

“Wha–our Harry?”

He pushes his fringe up and away from his eyes. “Well, not my Harry anymore,” he grumbles.

“Oh, I _see,”_ his mother says. She doesn’t even sound surprised, and Louis doesn’t feel the need to explain that part of the story further.

“We were getting along really well, here in the city. And I was trying to help him. He’s a singer, Mum, and he’s _so_ amazing. I wish you could see him when he plays. He just...lights everything up.”

“He always thought the world of you too, baby,” she says with fondness.

“But I made a stupid deal with some bad people,” Louis soldiers on, lump forming in his throat. “And Harry found out about it, and now he doesn’t ever want to see me again.”

“I’m sure that’s not true–”

“And I don’t blame him!” Louis cuts in. “If I were him, I wouldn’t forgive me either.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re usually kinder to others than we are to ourselves,” Jay muses.

The conversation stalls, both of them lost in thought.

“Mum,” Louis says after a beat. “Did you ever make a big mistake? Or a huge one that could change your life?”

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes, love.”

“Do you ever wish you could just go back in time and fix them?”

“I don’t, no,” she answers, with assurance.

“How come?” Louis asks softly.

“Because if I hadn't have made them, I wouldn’t have learned how to make things right,” Jay answers. Louis thinks she’s probably the wisest person in the whole world.

They say their goodbyes a few minutes later, after Louis makes sure all of his siblings are thriving and he and his mum make plans to speak again very soon. He already feels lighter than he has all day, and more empowered too. How could he have so quickly forgotten everything she taught him? If the door is closed, you enter through the window. If you wrong somebody, you do whatever you can to fix it. And you leave your own feelings the hell out of it.

Whatever he does next can’t be about winning Harry back. And once he lets go of that idea, it’s clear what Louis has to do. He sits up in bed, then types a brief email on his phone and sends it off. Renewed by this fresh sense of purpose, he opens his contacts and calls the person he’s been avoiding for days. He owes Zayn a heads up on what he’s about to do, no matter how much he disagrees with him.

*****

If Liam had told James about the Ricochet deal, the shitstorm would have long since started. And Louis bears the guy no ill will at all, not even for telling Harry. He just wishes he had his strength of character – unbelievably, the guy proved to be even more sincere than he looks. Liam made a conscious decision to warn the innocent person in all of this, and Louis almost loves him for it. He returned his former intern’s text this morning to say as much, which resulted in them meeting for coffee and concocting this plan, Liam more than a little astonished that Louis hadn’t blacklisted him.

So Louis walks back into the _NME_ offices on what appears to be a normal day. He isn’t dressed to make the same impression he tried to the last time. He’s taken new comfort in being as much himself as possible, hence the rolled skinnies, Vans, and Joy Division t-shirt. Louis is surprised he isn’t more nervous, considering the purpose of this meeting. His heart-to-heart with his mum reminded him that he still has cards left to play, and he’ll be doing that with all the courage he can muster.

There’s no reason to enter his office, so Louis strides straight back to James’s corner one. (He’d scoped it out on his first visit, under cover of a walk-and-talk meeting with Liam.) The editor-in-chief is expecting him any minute. Louis promised in his email that this wouldn’t take much of his time.

He sees James through the glass, watching something on his laptop and drumming his fingers on his desk rhymically. Squaring his shoulders, Louis knocks on the closed the door. James looks up and grins, removing his earbuds and motioning for him to come inside.

Louis enters, then carefully shuts the door behind the him.

“Louis!” James crows. “How are ya, mate?”

“James,” he answers, not quite able to reach his boss’s level of enthusiasm. “Thanks for seeing me today.”

James makes a gesture indicating that Louis should sit in one of the black leather chairs in front of his desk. “Of course! What can I do for you? Are we talking Glastonbury? I am ready to see what you’ve cooked up, let me tell you–”

“No,” Louis interrupts. “I’m sorry, I’m not here to talk about that.”

James’s face falls as he senses this conversation may be much more serious than he expected.

“No?” he double-checks.

“Unfortunately not,” Louis says, forcing himself to stay calm and level-headed. “I have something to tell you, and it’s not good. But I have a plan to hopefully make this a little easier on everybody.”

“If someone’s head-hunting you, Louis, I may be able to secure a salary bump.”

“It’s not that either,” Louis says ruefully.

“Then out with it, you’re making me nervous!” James forces a laugh.

“Okay.” Louis clasps his hands together and squeezes, to ground himself. “Please let me get this all out first, and then you can ask any questions you have...A few months ago, I took a payment from a manager who represents a band called Ricochet.”

James’s eyes widen, but he keeps mum.

“I agreed to write positive pieces about the group in exchange for money. I’m not proud of it, but I did it.”

“But Zayn,” James blurts out. “Didn’t he write that gig review for us?”

“I pressured him to make it positive,” Louis explains evenly. “I manipulated him. But he didn’t know why. No one knew. And that’s not all...there were a few other deals too.”

James takes his lower lips between his fingers and stares daggers at Louis.

“I’m resigning, immediately. Along with my resignation letter, I’m providing you with a list of pieces that were unethically sponsored. You can put an editor’s note at the top of them, or replace them completely with the editor’s note. That’s up to you. For Zayn’s piece, I hope you’ll use a different note that doesn’t put his integrity into question.”

“You seem to have this all figured out, Louis,” James says, with palpable disappointment.

“I’ve had some time to think about it. I got carried away by the money, and I forgot why it is that I write about music in the first place. And though I know the magazine is going to take some heat for this, I’d like to take as much as I can myself. It’s the only fair thing.”

James sighs and swivels his head to look out the window. Predictably, he’s taken Louis’s deception personally.

“You put a lot of faith in me, James,” Louis says, gratefully. “And I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I betrayed your trust. If there’s any other way I can make this easier on you, I’ll do it.”

“Well.” James clears his throat and shifts in his chair. He’s just about struck dumb. “I don’t know what else there is to say, then.”

“Just one last thing.” Louis tips forward so he can remove something from his back pocket. “I know I don’t have any right to ask you for a favor. But it really isn’t for me. You’re going to find that Ricochet submitted themselves for the Breakouts concert. They were going to pay me more money if I convinced you to choose them.”

He holds up a flash drive, and leans forward to place it on James’s desk, right at the top of his blotter.

“But I don’t give a shit about that, or them. This right here–” he juts his chin in the direction of the drive “–is your Breakout. Harry Styles is the act you want in that slot. I may be biased as a fan, but trust me, this in no way financially benefits me. He couldn’t pay me if he wanted to. He works in a bar, for christ’s sake.”

James picks up the drive and turns it around in his fingers, still looking at Louis.

“This is your show, sir. I can’t make the decision for you, and you have no reason to take my advice. All I ask is that you listen to this demo with an open mind. Please don’t let the fact that he was unlucky enough to be associated with me ruin Harry’s chances. Or the magazine’s, for getting this guy before every record company in town is fighting over him. Please.”

Beating a dead horse isn’t going to help, so Louis rests his case there. It’s all in James’s hands now, and fortunately, he doesn’t strike Louis as a vengeful person. He stays put for a few moments, waiting to see if his now-former boss has anything else to say.

“I’ll listen to it,” James finally declares. “I can’t promise anything else.”

Louis wants to fist pump so badly, but he settles for popping to his feet and thrusting his hand forward to shake James’s, who just sort of lets it happen.

“Thank you, sir! I’m sorry, and thank you and it’s been a pleasure.”

“Right…” James looks a little shell-shocked, but Louis finally feels free.

He leaves without any further ado, mission accomplished. He passes the intern desks on his way to the elevators, and searches for his co-conspirator. When he catches Liam’s eye, Louis gives him a close-lipped smile and a thumbs up, which Liam returns.

It’s not a solution, but it’s a pretty damn good start.


	20. Chapter 20

_Congratulations! We would like to offer you a set at this year’s NME’s Breakouts Concert._

Harry reads this line of the email over and over again, failing to fully comprehend what he’s being told. He’d unlocked his phone to check for messages on his way to the storeroom to grab some extra napkins for Niall. But he’s been standing motionless in the center of the pub for a good 90 seconds, just staring at the screen.

“Oi, Harry!” Niall calls when he glances up from changing the tap handles and notices. “Are you malfunctioning or something?”

_Please reply with your acceptance as soon as possible, so we can send you more details, including your full itinerary._

It’s from the executive assistant to _NME_ ’s Editor In Chief, and it certainly _looks_ legitimate. But Harry’s made that same mistake quite recently. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.

Registering Niall’s comment after a few seconds’ delay, he pivots to face his friend.

“I got it,” he says, not exactly overjoyed.

_“What?”_ Niall shrieks, hopping over the bar and colliding into Harry. “I’m so proud of you, man!” he says, slapping his back. “You fucking made it.”

Harry half-heartedly returns the hug, trying to let his own mood be lifted by Niall’s. But the truth of the matter is, he thought this would feel better.

He’d allowed himself to envision this moment only a few times. But never in Harry’s imagination, was he ever the slightest bit conflicted. He was nervous, certainly – that he’d screw up. That no one would like him or applaud. That he’d let Louis down. But there was elation in there too, and a healthy dose of _finally._

There’s none of that today. Instead, Harry feels bile creeping up the back of his throat and the strong urge to just chuck the phone against the wall.

Niall belatedly clocks that Harry is stock still in his embrace. (They’re both a little slow on the uptake today.) He pulls back and looks at him in confusion, eyebrows knitting together. “Are you okay?”

Harry groans deeply and steps out of Niall’s hold, throwing one arm up and half over his own face.

“You did say you got it, right?” Niall asks. “You got it.”

“Yes, I got it,” Harry answers, letting his arm drop down again.

“Then why are you acting like this–” Niall nods towards Harry’s phone “–is bad news?”

Harry just looks at him.

Niall crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Are you really going to let him ruin this for you?”

Harry closes his mouth and exhales forcefully through his nose. He’s behaving like a cranky child, he knows that, but he just doesn’t have another reaction in him.

“Were _you_ paying Louis?” Niall demands.

“No.”

“Do you have anyone else on the take over at that magazine?”

“No.”

“Then you got this on _merit,_ Harry. On your talent! Fair and fucking square.”

“They had to pull that other act out of the running, Niall.” Harry reasons. “You saw what they did to those articles. Wouldn’t look right if they got the slot. Even if they were better than me.”

Niall scoffs. “I looked them up, and they’re not.”

Harry _almost_ smiles. “Whatever.”

Niall puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders and stares him down. “Look. I know this isn’t how you wanted it to happen. But it happened, and you’re going to make the best of it. Go live your fucking life. Because if you’re still here replenishing my stock in six months, I will kill you myself.”

*****

“What do you _mean_ he hasn’t accepted it?” Louis is Facetiming with Liam while he packs his overnight bag, and he’s furious.

“That’s what Perrie said,” Liam confirms through the phone, his forlorn expression filling up the screen. “She sent the email two days ago, and it took him over 24 hours to reply. And all he said is that he’d ‘think about it.’ They’re only giving him until the day after tomorrow, or else they’re moving on.”

Louis moans in pure exasperation.

It isn’t fair of him, to actually be angry at Harry after everything. But he wants to break down his door and shake that stubborn idiot until he sees sense. Harry’s really going to martyr himself instead of take this opportunity. Louis half believes he’s doing it just to spite him.

“Maybe you should tell him you quit,” Liam suggests.

“No,” Louis says adamantly, stuffing two identical pairs of boxer briefs into his duffel. “Absolutely not.”

“But why?”

“Because I don’t want him to do this for _me,_ I want him to do it for himself.”

“It might change his mind though,” Liam says, carefully.

Louis pauses his packing. “But it wouldn’t be right.”

“Look, I know you don’t want to feel like you’re manipulating him or whatever. But maybe he _deserves_ to know, did you ever think about that?”

One of the positive outcomes of this disaster is that Liam feels comfortable enough to challenge Louis. But right now, Louis really wishes he wouldn’t. He’s stressed enough as it is.

“It’s not an option, Li,” he says, with finality. “Anyway, he won’t even answer my calls. He’s ignoring my texts.”

“Well, you better hope he comes around on his own, then,” Liam says, glumly. “What time’s your train?”

“About an hour and a half.” Louis shoves his dopp kit into the bag and zips it up. “I should get a car soon.”

“Okay. Text me when you get there?”

Louis winks at him, marveling – not for the first time – at the fact that Liam’s “betrayal” made them better mates than ever.

*****

Four hours later, Louis is standing before a front door he knows very well, his face hot and nerves on fire.

They’re expecting him. His mum had even wanted to come and pick him up from the train station, but Louis had insisted she not put herself out.

His emotions are all over the place even so. On one hand, there’s his truest self, who was completely unprepared to be separated from his family at 13 and now would like for his mum to hold him and stroke his hair for a solid hour. And then there’s his other self, whose choices he’s been paying for. He created this rift and let it widen. And his family would be within every right if they reminded him of that every second. Louis loathes that person for making him actually afraid of the place where he always felt most safe and accepted.

He pulls in a breath and rings the doorbell.

A few seconds later the door opens, and his whole world is standing in front of him.

His mum looks like she’s already been crying, but her smile is warm and welcoming. Her face is a bit fuller than Louis remembers, and her auburn hair is streaked with silver. Otherwise she is exactly, gorgeously the same.

She doesn’t say anything at first, just makes a little “oh” sound and pulls Louis into her arms. He wraps his around her and holds on for dear life. It’s only then that Louis finds his voice.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into her hair. “I’m so sorry, Mum.”

Soon enough there’s tea, and awkward pleasantries. Louis answers questions about the train ride and the traffic in between glances at all the little ways his childhood home has changed. New throw pillows lie on the sofa, and his mother’s beloved vintage desk has been pushed to the opposite side of the sitting room.

He once spent a whole afternoon clicking through the girls’ Facebook pages, so the new photos adorning the walls aren’t quite as jarring as they might have been. They still take his breath away, though. Lottie is a knockout. Fizzy, of the perpetually scraped knees, is now a young woman with a surprisingly serene expression. Daisy and Phoebe were barely out of nappies the last time Louis saw them, and now they’re gangly teens. All of them are people now, with problems and lives of their own. He doesn’t know them, and they don’t know him. It makes Louis nauseous, that he could go to sleep every night believing that was okay.

He can tell that his mum is tip-toeing around the subject of their estrangement. She’s deliberately avoiding it, actually, as if she’s frightened that he’ll shut down if she alludes to it too closely. Instead, she wants to know about Louis’s job and his friends. He tells her everything he can from his own experience, as if his whole adult life consists of the previous two weeks. And in a sense, it does.

He skips over the part where he quit his job in disgrace. That can wait until the next visit.

“Mum?”

Jay smiles cautiously at Louis from across the kitchen table when a voice calls out from the hall. He clenches his fists nervously, then flattens his hands on the pitted wood. Lottie was his closest ally in the house, but when they fought, they fought like alley cats. She always had a strict sense of justice, and would happily let you know if you offended it. Lottie was a pistol at ten years old. What’s she like at 23?

“In the kitchen, love. With your brother.”

Louis hears a bag drop to the floor and the jangle of keys, then the rhythmic smack of high heels coming closer. He looks to the direction of the noise expectantly, and is shortly rewarded with the sight of his eldest sister.

He tries his best to look as friendly as possible, and then ends up grinning so hard, he worries it might scare her. “Lots.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” she says, staring at him blankly.

Hugging her doesn’t seem like an option, but Louis gets up from his chair anyway. He walks over to her, taking in her stacked heel boots, cropped jeans, and ripped white t-shirt, her peach-tinted hair and fully painted face. Lottie had begged their mother for make-up on more than one Christmas. She must have finally relented.

Lottie appraises Louis too, soberly scanning him from top to toe.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says – his familiar and necessary refrain. He doesn’t want to cross her boundaries by putting his arms around her. Instead, he self-consciously offers her his hand.

Lottie delicately takes it, then abruptly pulls him into her, wrapping her other arm around his shoulder and holding him firmly.

“You... _complete_...idiot,” she whispers into his ear. “I hate you.”

Louis buries his face into her shoulder and smiles, because she doesn’t.

*****

They’re awake long after Jay goes to bed. It’s just the three of them tonight. Fizzy is back at university, post-holiday; and the twins are sleeping over at a friends. Louis had been daydreaming about a big, noisy family dinner, but he doesn’t blame his mum for not requiring their presence. They’re all feeling something out here, Louis included. And perhaps it’s for the best that they take baby steps.

Lottie is reclining on the sofa, Louis sitting with his back against it, facing the muted TV, tuned to some late-night cooking show rerun.

She’ll sleep in her old room tonight. His sister lives just a few minutes’ drive away, apparently, but they’ve collectively put away two bottles of pinot noir this evening. It’s a fairly common occurrence, according to his mum. She and Lottie have grown even closer now that his sister is all grown up and technically on her own. She still comes by for dinner a couple of nights a week, and Jay always has fresh sheets waiting, just in case she decides to save herself the drive.

Louis is thinking about how nice that sounds when Lottie breaks their companionable silence. “So.”

He uses his heels to spin a quarter turn on his backside, so he can see her properly.

They’ve gone over a lot already: Louis’s flat, the art classes Lottie teaches, the kindly grocer their mum has been dating. Lottie was surprisingly understanding of Louis metaphorically crawling back home and literally begging forgiveness, though she insisted with murder in her eyes that he never make Jay cry ever again. He’s quite in awe of both of them and their capacity for mercy. It’s not what he deserves, but they don’t seem to be keeping score in that way.

“So.” Louis answers.

“Mum told me you see Harry?”

A twinge in Louis’s gut. “We were hanging out for a while, yeah,” he says softly, picking at the couch cushion in his lap.

“Like, hanging out or _hanging out?”_ Lottie asks, with a pointed expression.

“Um,” he considers being embarrassed, but he’d rather just be honest instead. “The second one.”

Lottie smirks and pushes at his shoulder. “I fucking knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You two were _obsessed_ with each other,” she says. “Like, it was honestly annoying.”

Louis has to smile at that, but he lowers his gaze to the pillow he’s holding. “Yeah, well. Don’t get too excited. Fucked it up, didn’t I?”

“I don’t know, did you?”

“Yep,” he says, popping the p.

“Seems like you’ve been fucking up a lot of things, lately,” Lottie says, with no small amount of sympathy.

“True enough.”

“So? Here you are. Fixing things.” She rolls to her side to face him, tucking her hands under the pillow supporting her head.

“Am I?” Louis asks, seriously.

“You’re trying.”

He sighs and pushes his fringe away from his face with his fingers.

“I know it’s awful, how I’ve treated all of you. I just...ignored you. Shut you out. I feel sick when I think about it.”

Lottie doesn’t argue with him, just regards him plainly, so Louis presses forward.

“But I _lied_ to Harry. I don’t know if that’s worse, but it’s definitely different. I can’t just pretend to myself that I got busy and waited too long to call and then waited a little more and then it was too late.”

“Were you seeing somebody else?”

The idea that he’d ever want to be with anyone other than Harry is so foreign that Louis almost laughs. “No, not that.”

“Then what? What’s so terrible?”

He didn’t want to upset his mum further, but Lottie can handle it, he decides. And he’d quite like to get her advice. She’s as level-headed as the woman who raised her, he’s learned over the course of the night. But far more likely to tell you when, how, and in what ways you’re being a git.

So Louis explains everything – the concert, the demo, the party (leaving out the details of the cab ride home), and finally, his and Zayn’s scheme, and what happened when Harry found out about it. Lottie doesn’t interrupt, but her blue eyes widen dramatically when Louis gets to the bribes.

When he’s finished with the story, he doesn’t make any excuses – just waits for Lottie to respond.

She bites on a manicured thumbnail for a moment. “So you quit your job completely?”

“Uh huh.”

“But Zayn’s still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, how is that fair?” she asks, incredulous.

Fair? Probably not. But Zayn’s karmic comeuppance isn’t for Louis to decide.

“Quitting was my call, Lots,” he explains. “If he feels bad, he can do it too. I’m not going to tell on him.”

Lottie shakes her head. “I don’t even know why you still hang around him, to be honest.”

“I’ve definitely begun to wonder that myself,” Louis says, sarcastically.

“I thought you’d never speak to him again after all that mess with Harry, when you guys were in your last year.”

Louis looks up at her sharply. “You remember that?”

“Of course. God, Lou, you were _livid._ I thought your head was going to explode.”

“Tell me everything,” he commands, sitting up on his knees, “exactly how you remember it.”

“Why how _I_ remember it? You were there.”

“Just...can you tell me, please?”

Lottie’s eyebrow quirks suspiciously, but she complies.

“Fine, whatever…so, Zayn came over one day after school, and he showed you something. I don’t know what, you never told me. But it was some...proof. That Harry liked boys.”

“What did I do?” he asks, impatiently.

“You don’t know?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, quickly. “But I want to know what you know.”

She narrows her eyes at him, then picks the story back up. “I don’t know what exactly you said to Zayn, but you tried to stop him from telling anybody. He went on and on about how this would be good for Harry. Like he needed a push to come out or something. You’d had a boyfriend by that point, and everybody knew that Zayn didn’t care about gender at all. But I remember you telling me that was bullshit, and that everyone deserves their own chance to decide when and who they tell.”

“I tried to stop him…” Louis whispers to himself.

“Right,” Lottie confirms, still looking at him strangely. “But Zayn always did whatever the fuck Zayn wanted to do – seems like that hasn’t changed. So he started spreading it around school. I didn’t hear any of this from you until someone told _me_ in class and I basically confronted you. I hated that I had to do that, by the way.”

He’d heard a similar story from Harry himself, but it hurts all over again to hear it confirmed.

“Harry was being outed, and I didn’t help him,” Louis says, feeling completely wrecked.

“It wasn’t a conventional approach, but I wouldn’t say that,” Lottie argues.

“What do you mean?”

“You basically blackmailed every popular person in school, Louis. You told them that if they bullied Harry at all, you’d start spreading _their_ secrets. You’d been hanging around them so much, you had something on everybody. Even Zayn left Harry alone after that.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, holy shit. You weren’t the easiest person to be around back then, but it was pretty awesome. You were actually scary.”

Stunned, Louis stands up and paces around the room. Lottie sits up, her expression shifting from confusion to concern.

“Louis, what’s going on?”

“I didn’t even _talk_ to him about it,” Louis hisses, mostly to himself.

“It was nine years ago. Maybe ten,” Lottie reasons. “Why are you so upset?”

Maybe because Louis _knows_ Harry. And he did back then too, which means that there is no excuse. He’s upset because he is sure, without a single doubt, that what Harry would have wanted when his privacy was being invaded and his choices being ripped away from him wasn’t for someone to secretly threaten every possible tormentor. He would have wanted to know who was in his corner. And it would have meant so much to him to know that Louis was there for him. In every way.

Instead, Louis had left him to deal with the emotional fallout on his own. And he did that even though he cared – even though he was obviously worried enough about Harry’s safety to risk his own social standing like that. He was too far down the road he’d chosen to turn back, even though it’s so painfully clear now that he’d wanted to. He was a coward, just like Harry said. And if he ever wants to be anything different, he has to start sticking around.

Louis turns to face the couch, arms hanging limply at his sides. “I should have had the guts to be a better friend,” he confesses.

“Oh, Lou,” Lottie says, patting the cushion next to her. He settles in next to her, awkwardly at first. Then his sister drops her head onto his shoulder, and he’s oddly comforted by the scent of her vanilla shampoo.

“I did think for a little while,” she says, quietly, “that you and Harry would be back to normal after that. But you had new priorities then, I guess.”

They fall into silence for a few moments, Louis still contemplating how impossible he must have been.

“Was I mean to you?” he whispers, finally. “To mum and the girls?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘mean,’” Lottie answers, thoughtfully. “Just...uninterested. It was like we bored you. I wasn’t even that surprised when you stopped coming home for hols.”

Heart breaking, Louis searches blindly for her hand, slotting his fingers between hers when he finds it. They sit like that for a while.

“You’re different now,” she murmurs, just when Louis thinks she’s fallen asleep. “I don’t hate it.”

*****

“’m coming!” Harry calls to whomever is insistently banging on his door at 10 in the morning after a busy night shift. He goes over his mental checklist of bills as he shuffles to the source of the noise, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with one hand and scratching his upper thigh with the other. Water, paid; electric, paid; rent, paid early for once. So, who in the actual fuck?

If he weren’t half asleep, he’d probably check the peephole. But the sooner he deals with this, the sooner he can crawl back into bed. So Harry unlatches the chain lock, turns the deadbolt, and swings the door open.

He kneads his knuckle into his eye one more time to confirm that it’s really Louis standing there, duffel bag on his shoulder and a compact disc case in his hand.

“Louis,” Harry groans. “What the hell?”

“Shut up,” Louis cuts him off. “I had to wait on the street for 20 minutes for one of your neighbors to come out, because _somebody_ wasn’t answering their buzzer.”

“Because I was _asleep_ , Louis.” Harry complains.

“Shh,” Louis hushes. “I planned a whole thing, and I have to get this out.” Dark circles under his eyes and hair sticking up in all directions, he doesn’t look any more rested than Harry feels.

Harry doesn’t move to welcome Louis in. But he doesn’t shut the door either, which comes as a surprise to him, and by the looks of it, to Louis too.

“You don’t owe it to me to play this show, Harry,” he begins. “You owe it to this person.”

Louis holds the CD case out to Harry, who instinctively takes it. He chews his lip as he turns it over in his hands.  

_Happy 13, Lou,_ the childish writing on the disc reads. _I’m sorry._

Harry sucks in a breath.

“You gave that to me on my birthday. You should have been throwing rocks at my house, but instead you wrote me a song. And I never told you, but I listened to it as many times I could take. I loved it, Harry. But I hated it too, because it was this painful reminder of how much better you were than me. If I could do it all over again, I would have stepped up and tried to be what you deserved, instead of just running away.”

Tears matting his lashes together, Louis presses on. “You were _11,_ Harry, and you wrote a song that ended up being the turning point of my life. It was so honest and true and self-assured that it scared the fucking shit out of me.”

Harry shifts his weight, his eyelashes fluttering furiously to keep his own tears in check.

“I am not the weak person that I know that I was,” Louis adds, voice raw. “I don't even know that person. And I'd like to believe...I _have_ to believe that if you knew that...if in your heart, you really, really knew that, you would trust me, and we could do this together. But I don’t expect you to just...forget. So even if I can’t be a part of it – of you – I _need_ you to take this chance. Because you’re wonderful. And you have to keep sharing that. _Promise_ me that you’ll keep sharing that.”

Harry wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and then meets Louis’s gaze.

“I promise,” he says, emotion thickening his voice.

And with that, Louis appears satisfied. He gives Harry a teary smile, then readjusts his bag and disappears down the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had Billy Joel's "Vienna" in my head for daaaaaaays.


	21. Chapter 21

London weather seems to turn a corner right along with Harry’s outlook on life. It’s bright and warm the day that he takes the tube over to the _NME_ offices to sign the necessary paperwork, so he forgoes his battered leather jacket for one of his few higher-end hoodies.

He’d answered Perrie’s email the moment that Louis had left, before he could lose his nerve.

It’s not pleasant, to realize that you’re making a decision out of fear instead of actual judgment. But Niall’s tough love combined with Louis’s confusingly selfless appeal showed Harry that the cold, hard truth of it is that he was afraid. He was using Louis’s betrayal as a reason to back off of an opportunity that was _almost_ in his grasp, so he could linger a just little longer in his comfort zone. But how long would he let time pass him by? A month? A year? He still sees nothing wrong in tapping kegs all day and playing hole-in-the-wall pubs at night. Lots of great musicians do that. But the difference between those guys and the ones who make it are moments like this one. Once the resentment and righteousness faded, he knows he’d have nothing left but regret. Harry had never in his life blamed anyone for his problems, and he made the choice not to start now.

His heart raced as he clicked “Send,” sealing _some_ potential future, though he can’t be sure exactly what it holds. He paced around his tiny flat for a few minutes before he could bring himself to let his friends know, fueled by exhilaration and far too much caffeine. Niall sent three rows of fire emojis to their Whatsapp group. Nick shared a cheesy selfie of his own delighted reaction, then immediately began fretting about what to wear.

He didn’t send anything to Louis. It hadn’t seemed necessary.

It wasn’t pretty, the private battle that Harry waged against himself as Louis presented to him the indisputable truth that their past means as much to him as it does Harry. His brain won out. Harry _hadn’t_ taken the exhausted boy into his arms and drawn circles on his back until his stuttering breath slowed to normal. But it had been a close call.

They’ve been doing this dance for _years,_ though Harry is pretty confident that Louis himself isn’t aware of that. There have always seemed to be at least two different versions of his former best friend, and evidently Harry hasn’t yet figured out a way to predict which one he’s going to get. He got through secondary and 6th form believing that the _real_ Louis was the one Harry knew best, and that he was lying dormant just below the colder exterior, waiting to be excavated. But perhaps the other half of his dual personality was always the stronger, no matter how hard Louis was loved.

Harry had almost fully convinced himself of the futility of of it all, but then Louis put that CD into his hands. And now he can’t tell which Louis is winning.

His love life is in a certified shambles, but it’s all going to have to wait. He feels satisfied with himself for ticking one item off of the to-do list – producing his signature in triplicate on some forms that may have signed his life away to the magazine being the least daunting. Next, Harry plans on popping in at The Cross Keys to grab an extra shift and pick Niall’s brain about his four-song setlist.

James had popped his head out of his office to say hello and welcome when Harry was sitting at his assistant’s desk. He liked the guy straight away, despite him being not at all ironic enough to be in charge of a staff of music elitists.

“Start hard, then hit them with the emotional stuff. Close it out with a banger, like that ‘Broken Hearts’ song. They’ll go absolutely mental,” James said, giving Harry a mini salute before he ducked back inside.

Harry’s turning those words over in his head as he watches for the metal bars of the lobby’s futuristic turnstile to open. He’s just through when someone at the next station seizes his forearm. Harry looks up, alarmed, and meets a pair of crafty brown eyes.

“Zayn,” he warns, tone low and dangerous.

But Zayn looks delighted to see him, and it puts Harry even further on edge.

“Harold.”

“Can you let me go please?”

Zayn’s grip slackens and Harry pulls his arm immediately back to his side.

“I just didn’t want you to go running off.” Zayn steps away from the turnstile so someone else can enter. For reasons he can’t articulate, Harry follows him. “I’ve been hoping to catch you around here.”

“Do I even want to know why?” Harry retorts, bored already.

“Because I want to know what the fuck you did to Louis, obviously.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s gotten all moral...and noble. It’s disgusting.” Zayn examines his flawless nail beds, then gazes up at Harry through his fringe. “You’re the only new variable, mate, soooo…”

Harry stares at Zayn slack-jawed as he trails off.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, _mate,”_ he says, putting biting emphasis on that last word. “All I know is that my life is none of your business. It never has been, as obsessed with me as you seem to be.”

Zayn holds two open palms up in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, it was an honest question. ’Cause from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve got some kind of creepy hold on him.”

“Whatever you say, Zayn,” Harry mutters, trying to move past him.

“I mean, I get it, from his end,” Zayn leers, maneuvering his body back into Harry’s way and looking him up and down. _“Now._ Didn’t make any sense to me why he was all protective of you back in Donny.”

Harry sighs in frustration and puts his hands on his hips. “Again, _excuse_ me?”

“You’ve grown up well, love,” Zayn practically purrs. “If I didn’t think you’d punch me, I’d ask you out myself...Actually, want to get out of here? Grab a pint?”

“Pass.”

“But my point is,” Zayn continues, ignoring Harry’s disgust, “are you really worth his entire career?”

Harry’s hackles are rising now. “If I remember correctly, it was you two who were selling reviews. You got yourselves sacked.”

His nose crinkles in confusion as an incongruity dawns on him.

“In fact, what are you even _doing_ here? Wouldn’t think they’d want you anywhere near this building.”

Harry waits impatiently as Zayn chuckles to himself.

“They didn’t sack Louis,” he says at last, shoulders still shaking. “He quit.”

All the other sound gets sucked out of the room, like when Eleven goes into the sensory deprivation tank in _Stranger Things._

“What?”

“Called me the night before and said he had to do it. To ‘make things right.’ Told him we could’ve gotten out of it, made up a pretty convincing story. But he didn’t want to hear it.”

“So, why the hell are you still here?”

“He took the fall for all of it, because of whatever sea witch spell you’ve got on him,” Zayn says, looking nauseated. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Hold on. Louis lined up to accept the consequences for something you did _together_ so that you could keep your cushy job,” Harry recaps, “and you’re _angry_ with him?”

“Yeah, well.” Zayn crosses his arms over his abdomen, which makes him look oddly vulnerable. Like a cougar in a baby bonnet. “Lost my best friend, didn’t I?”

*****

“I can’t go to the gig, Liam.”

“Well, hello to you too.”

“Sorry, hello. Also, I can’t go to the bloody gig.”

Liam sighs into Louis’s ear dramatically. He’s been trying for most of the morning to change Louis’s mind, with no indication that he’ll ever back off. Louis is fully prepared to argue with him until the concert has come and gone. He’ll _have_ to stop then.

He was thrilled to hear that Harry had finally signed on the dotted line, of course. But Louis was never planning on actually _seeing_ him play. He’d pretty well cocked that up, on multiple points.

“I appreciate you, mate. But this is exhausting,” Louis says. “I’m the last person anyone but you wants at Breakouts. What if James sees me? I can’t get tossed out on the street by enormous bouncers, Liam. I’m fragile. My bones snap like twigs.”

“Have you ever actually _broken_ a bone?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Louis chastises.

Liam actually screams in frustration. _“Fine._ So we’ll disguise you!”

“Disguise me?!” Louis pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering at the Cameron Frye of it all – _He’ll keep callin’ me, he’ll keep callin’ me…_ “Which episode of _Boy Meets World_ do you think this is?”

“Not like another person or a clown or anything,” Liam continues, bolstered by what he clearly sees as the raw genius of his idea. “Just a hoodie, some dark glasses you won’t take off until the lights go down. We’ll stand in the back. And if anyone so much as looks suspicious, we can leave. Well. _You_ can leave. I work there.”

“Assuming – and this is a big one –  that this stupid plan actually works,” Louis carries on, “why am I even there? Harry made himself pretty clear–”

“Nope,” Liam interjects.

“What do you mean, _nope?”_

“He never said that,” Liam says, with conviction. “Did he? You never told me that he told you that, and he certainly didn’t say it to me.”

“But–” Louis sputters.

“Unless he said the words to you, ‘Louis, do not come into the building where the biggest moment in my burgeoning career is taking place,’ that’s not an excuse.”

“Burgeoning…” Louis repeats, dully.

“You don’t have to talk to him,” Liam implores. “He doesn’t even have to know you’re there. But after everything that’s happened, don’t you want to see it through?”

Louis unclenches his posture and falls back on his couch, defeated.

“Yes,” he says, simply.

They’re not Facetiming today, but he can hear Liam’s grin in his tone.

“Good. I’ll pick you up at six.”

*****

Louis yanks his hood down for the twentieth time since he and Liam left his flat, making sure it’s covering his caramel fringe. Uselessly anxious that his sunglasses won’t do the full job, he keeps his eyes downcast as they get their phones scanned by the ticket taker, while simultaneously staying on the lookout for James’s cuddly frame and a signature loud tie.

“This is a terrible idea,” he hisses to Liam’s back once they’re safely in.

“Too late now!” Liam sing-songs, at twice Louis’s volume.

“Jesus! Can you at least _attempt_ to be subtle?”

“Me? You look the Unabomber. If we were in an airport, you’d have been dragged into an interrogation room by now.”

He can’t see it, ’cause of the glasses and all, but Louis still rolls his eyes like no one has ever rolled their eyes before.

Liam is determined to make a real night out of it though, no matter how much Louis protests. He buys them both king-sized beers, and a bag of Star Mix to share. Louis tried to tell him that someone is more likely to recognize him if they’re standing about together, but Liam won’t leave his side. And after about 15 minutes, Louis realizes that in the crush of bodies and voices, no one – absolutely no one – is looking. Wherever James and his staff are, they’re too busy to be scanning the crowd for one humiliated former employee. Bloody paranoia. Must come with age.

That concern set aside, Louis pops a gummy cola bottle into his mouth while he waits for Liam to pick out a t-shirt from the merch stand and lets his mind wander back to Harry.

It’s impossible to stay present in this moment when the memory of him backstage at a very different kind of gig is still so fresh. Louis smiles to himself thinking of little 11-year-old Harry chatting up the school staff and going on about pre-show rituals of the stars. Is he talking someone’s ear off now? Louis can’t picture that, as guarded as Harry’s become. But he hopes he’s letting himself properly enjoy it.

He and Liam are making their way to an empty length of wall to lean against when it happens. Louis feels his shoulder connect with something solid and unforgiving. The exclamation comes out like reflex.

“Oi!”

The shoulder and the man attached to it halt immediately. Louis clocks that it’s Zayn before he turns around.

“You can’t be serious,” Zayn says, doubling back.

Louis squares his shoulders and tilts his head back in what he hopes is an intimidating stance. “Can I help you?”

Zayn smirks unpleasantly. Louis can feel the sleeve of Liam’s t-shirt rubbing against his arm, letting him know he’s there.

“Nah, mate. Just surprised you actually showed.”

“It’s a free country,” Louis says, lamely. But Liam chimes in with a, “Yeah, it is!” and he feels much better about it.

Zayn lets out a breath and swivels his head from side to side, as if he’s expecting to see his schoolyard subordinates still next to him, repeating every insult.

“You know, I don’t get you, Louis. One day, you’re fine and the next you’re like a fucking pod person. You back out on our deal, you dodge my calls, and then you _quit?”_

“Yeah, and he saved your arse in the process,” Liam chimes in. Zayn pins him with a withering glare, and Louis is so proud of Liam for not breaking eye contact that he could cry. Even Zayn looks a little impressed after a few seconds.

“I’m _not_ the same person, Zayn,” Louis says, with clear-eyed sincerity. “And I can’t say I miss the other one, but...I _am_ sorry he disappeared on you. I bet that’s hard.”

Zayn closes his eyes and rubs his forehead like he feels a headache coming on.

“It really freaks me the fuck out when you talk about yourself in the third person.”

“Sorry,” Louis mutters.

“Whatever,” Zayn sighs. “Go make up with your little rockstar boyfriend. Move out to the suburbs. Have a million babies. See if I care.”

To hear Zayn even _mention_ Harry after what Louis learned this week makes his blood pressure rise to a code-red level.

“Leave him out of this,” he grits out.

“Oh, don’t worry, he seemed pretty out of the loop when I saw him,” Zayn taunts. “Still a little Bambi in headlights. No idea what’s going on. It’s pretty sweet, actually.”

“What did you say to him?” Louis asks, a dangerous edge to his voice. He feels Liam’s considerable tricep muscle stiffen.

“Nothing, really,” Zayn says, bringing two fingers to his chin as if he’s thinking very hard. “Just that he must have dickmatized you.”

Louis is unfamiliar with _that_ term, but he can easily work out what it probably means.

“And that you sabotaged your whole fucking life because you’re so in love with him or whatever.”

The venue continued to fill up while they were talking, and Louis is beginning to feel faint in the claustrophobic press of human bodies.

Also, the crowd din has risen to a light roar, so now he has to shout at Zayn to be heard.

“You told him I left?”

Zayn opens his arms in a shrug.

The last time he and Harry spoke, Harry was under the impression that Liam reported Louis to James, not that Liam would have said nothing if Louis had put a stop to the bribes. He also could have just been more careful about his communications and kept the money rolling in, no one the wiser. (Which, _why_ had Evil!Louis given Ben his _work email?_ Louis may be 13, but at least he’s not an amateur.) Louis hadn’t told Harry the truth because it would have made it seem like Louis was trying to be a hero again, putting his own need to be liked in front of Harry’s happiness. But now Harry knows, and Louis allows himself to hope that it might mean something to him.

He opens his mouth to respond to Zayn, praying he’ll work out a brilliant retort _as he’s saying it,_ but is cut off by his phone vibrating in his back pocket.

Louis holds up a finger while he fishes the phone out with the other hand. His mouth goes dry when he sees that the message is from Harry.

_Are you here? I think I need to see you.xx_

He snaps his gaze up to meet Liam’s. Liam sees the look on Louis’s face, and simply says, “Go.”

Louis nods, putting a hand on his own chest to steady himself. And then he starts moving. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Liam step right in front of Zayn, blocking his path. The latter is shouting something at Louis’s back, but he couldn’t be arsed what.

His biggest concern at the moment are the thousands of people standing between him and his objective. He has no idea where the entrance to the backstage area actually is, but its name pretty much decrees that it has to be behind the thing he’s looking at right now – his beacon beyond a sea of music lovers.

He’d thought he done a thorough job of accepting Harry’s decision and moving on. Reconnecting with his family was another step towards that – a life in this reality without his anchor. It might have even been a good one. But as he trips through the crowd, overpriced beer spilling onto his shoes, Louis understands that he’d been lying to himself. Nothing makes sense without Harry. It never _has_ done.

Maybe that’s what the other him was running from.

He finally makes it to the barricade in front of the stage. Breathing heavily, he approaches his only hope – an unfortunately unfriendly looking man in a highlighter yellow “STAFF” polo.

Louis raises his hand in what he hopes is a friendly greeting, pushing between two visibly annoyed young women who’d probably camped out overnight to be front row.

“Hello? Excuse me? Hello?”

The security guard approaches at a glacial pace, clearly unaware of the urgency of the situation.

He says nothing when he arrives at the barrier, just regards Louis with the disinterest of a thousand public transit workers.

“Sir,” Louis begins his appeal. “I would like to go backstage, please?”

The man crosses his meaty arms in front of his chest.

“It’s an emergency. My friend? He’s performing, and he said he needs me. Well, needs to see me. But that’s sort of the same thing, right? Anyway, I actually used to work for _NME,_ so if I could just…” He gestures toward the opening.

“Do you ’ave a pass?” the man says, in a thick-as-tar Cockney accent.

“Ah, well,” Louis smiles his most charming smile. “No. But I do have this text from my mate–”

He holds up his phone and is horrified when he realizes he _never texted Harry back._

_“Shit.”_

Louis fumbles with the device – he knew how to text ten minutes ago – but finally manages a reply.

_I’m here! I’m coming!!_

“I can't let you back wivaaht a pass.”

Louis looks at the time on his phone, and his heart sinks. Just fifteen minutes and Harry will be walking out onto that stage. It hits him that this might not actually work. And again, he won’t be there for Harry when he needs him.

“There you are.”

His eyes flick upward and damn if Louis never imagined that he’d be overjoyed to see the tall quiff and too-white teeth of Nick Grimshaw.

Nick indicates with his head that Louis should meet him at the break in the barrier. As he walks, he lifts a lanyard from around his neck. When they both get to their destination, he hands the pass to Louis. “All-Access,” it reads.

“Get in there,” Nick says, warmly. “He’s been talking about you all day.”

_“Thank_ you,” Louis responds, internally chiding himself for being so stubborn about this wonderful, wonderful man.

“My pleasure, love,” he answers. “Second door on the left.”

Nick grasps his hand briefly as he moves back into the floor crowd. Louis settles the lanyard around his neck and holds it up triumphantly to the guard.

Past the moat, he sets his mind back on finding Princess Peach. He walks as quickly as he can without endangering the production assistants and equipment strewn quite literally everywhere. He peeks in the first door and sees James reviewing some index cards. Louis darts out of sight with a gasp, praying he wasn’t spotted.

The next door is open too. And he can’t help it, because it’s just too cute – Louis stands behind the door frame for a few seconds, listening to Harry run through his ridiculous warmups. At least some things haven’t changed.

He hates to interrupt, but time is of the essence. Pulling in a fortifying breath, Louis raps his knuckles lightly on the door frame, then walks in.

Harry doesn’t speak right away, so Louis just drinks him in. He’s wearing black wide-leg trousers that make him look like a ’40s movie star, and a simple black t-shirt tucked into the high waist. His hair is down – soft and clean. And he looks nervous as hell.

“Hi,” Louis says, delicately.

“Hey,” Harry answers, lips curving upward into a brief half-smile.

Louis takes a few more steps inside the room, heartened by the proof that Harry hasn’t kicked him out yet and his summoning wasn’t some terrible miscommunication.

“So…”

“So?”

“So, here you are,” Louis spins in place, looking around the sensibly small dressing room.

“I even got a rider,” Harry says with a smirk. “Candy?” Louis follows his pointer finger and sees a few bottles of water, a bag of Peanut M&Ms, and a small, tasteful flower arrangement on the table. He picks up the yellow bag and peeks inside.

“Brown ones all gone?” he jokes.

And is Louis imagining it or is Harry touched that he remembered?

“I didn’t ask,” he says with a small smile. “Next time, maybe.”

Louis puts the bag back on the table, then takes a few steps towards Harry, holding his gaze.

“You did it. I told you you could.”

Harry shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. “Done everything but the scariest part.”

“Scared?” Louis scoffs. “Harry Styles? God, I used to be so jealous of your fearlessness. You weren’t afraid of anything. Or anybody.”

Harry screws up his face, like he’s remembered something he regrets.

“I was...Kids don’t know to be scared yet.”

“Excuse me, I think we already established that _I_ very much knew _,_ ” Louis argues. “Beginning of my downfall, really.”

Harry closes the distance between them a little more, the better for Louis to see that little crinkle he gets at the top of his nose when he’s working something out.

“See, that’s weird, because I heard you did something quite brave a few days ago.”

_Oh sweet Jesus._

“Is that so?”

“That’s the word on the street, yes.”

“Ten minutes!” a stage manager calls through the door.

“Fuck,” Harry whispers. Then, much louder: “Thank you, ten!”

“Should I leave?” Louis asks, pointing back at the door with his thumb.

“No, absolutely not.”

Harry crosses the room and pulls the door shut, then turns back to face Louis, determined.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, eyes searching Louis’s expression.

“About the job?”

Harry nods.

“Because it wasn’t about me,” Louis responds, as genuinely as he possibly can. “I’d already hurt you. I had to fix it, not to make you think you _had_ to forgive me.”

“You didn’t have to quit, though,” Harry continues. “Zayn told me. They may have never known.”

“But it wasn’t _right,”_ Louis stresses. “I think we can both agree I’ve done enough things to be ashamed of. I just wanted to do something...good. And I want you to be happy, Harry. I want you to be so, so happy.”

Harry scrubs both his hands over his face. “Fuck.”

Alarmed, Louis tries to catch his gaze again. “What? What is it?”

Harry signs and drops his hands. “Every time I think I have a good reason to finally let go of you, you prove me wrong.”

Their eyes meet again and heat spreads through Louis’s body.

“Is that so bad?” he asks, voice small.

“I don’t know.” Harry whispers back. “It is if this isn’t really you. It is if I’m alone in this thing.”

Louis comes to discover that by leaning in to hear and be heard, he has Harry almost flush against the door. It’s not a terrible position to be in to make him understand that he never has to be unsure of Louis ever again. And he’s never said this to anyone but his mum, his nan, and his sisters, but he’s certain that it’s true, all the same.

So Louis reaches for Harry’s hand and slots his fingers between his, still blown away by how perfectly they fit. Because it’s now or fucking never, and he chooses _now._

“I _love_ you, Harry,” he breathes, looking down at where they’re joined. “You’re my best friend.”

Louis feels Harry’s breath shudder across his face. Then Harry lifts their linked hands up to chest height and closes his other hand over them.

He looks back into Louis’s eyes, and Louis thinks, _This is what it’s like to be seen._

“Louis,” he says, slow and steady. “I’ve always loved you.”

Once, when Louis was little, he came to his mother very seriously with a very serious question. They’d watched a romantic comedy together the previous night that was all about destiny and fate and soulmates. And Louis had become obsessed with the idea that he wouldn’t know his. That he’d just miss them, and he’d never know what he’d lost. He was distraught about it.

“You’ll know when you’re in love, darling,” his mum had said.

“But _how_ will I know?” Louis prodded.

She picked him up and hugged him to her. “Because it will feel better than _anything.”_

It feels better than anything. Like Louis could lift a car over his head with one hand (and possibly chuck it at Zayn’s head.)

He launches himself at Harry, whose back hits the door with a thud, followed by a laugh pitched so low it makes Louis shiver. He extricates his hand so he can get both on the back of Harry’s head and pull his face down to his. He’s so enthusiastic that their teeth clatter together before they find their rhythm. Louis, for one, is committed to working on it until they have the whole process down to a science.

Using the door as leverage for his arse, Harry curves the upper half of his body over Louis, forcing him to arch his back as Harry’s lips move against his. Harry’s arms are wrapped tight around his lower back, so Louis is free to completely surrender. He lets the muscles of his torso go slack, content to just be held. He tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair – he can’t get enough of it, really – and Harry responds with an actual purr, from deep in the back of his throat.

Then someone pounds on the door behind them and they practically leap apart.

“Five minutes!” the stage manager bellows.

Harry’s a mess – lips red and swollen, recently styled hair disheveled and obscene, shirt untucked, and breathing _hard._

“Thank you, five!” he calls, then they both double over into laughter.

“Are you still nervous?” Louis asks, when they get a hold of themselves.

Harry turns to face the mirror and begins shoving his shirt back into his trousers. He catches Louis’s eye in the reflection and smirks.

“No, I think ’m good.”

He does what he can with his hair – Louis happens to think he looks more authentically rock and roll this way, because what is _he_ if not a groupie?

“You’re not going to make a break for it while I’m out there, are you?”

He tries to make it sound like he’s joking, but Louis has always been able to tell when Harry’s feeling vulnerable.

“Just try to get rid of me now, Styles,” he assures him.

*****

Four hours later, Liam, Nick, Louis and Harry are crowded behind Niall as he unlocks the side door of The Cross Keys.

“Any time, Neil,” Harry ribs, pleasantly drunk and even more pleasantly draped around Louis.

“This diva behavior,” Niall chides. “So demanding. Have you already forgotten the little people?”

Harry turns his head and giggles into Louis’s neck.

At blessed last, the lock turns, and the exhausted group cheers. They file into the dark pub, Niall flipping on only the necessary lights as they do. The last thing they need is for some _other_ drunken idiots to think the place is still open and crash their own personal afterparty.

The pub is empty and clean, but for a tub of ice sitting on the bar, chilling two bottles of champagne. “Congratulations, Harry!” reads the card propped up next to it.

“Awwwww,” Harry drawls, pouting at the card. “That’s nice.”

“Asked Bressie to set it up after closing,” Niall explains, hopping behind the bar to retrieve glasses for everyone. “Shocked he remembered, to be honest.”

Once each of them has a drink, Niall bids them to raise their glasses in a toast.

“To our Harry,” he says, with ceremony. “For not embarrassing us. We’re so proud of ya.”

Harry looks around like he’s memorizing the moment, and Louis can relate to his happily dazed expression as he clinks glasses with each of his friends and accepts their individual congratulations.

Harry was magnificent, as Louis knew he would be. Once Louis emerged from backstage, he was ushered into the VIP section to the front side by Nick and Niall, the latter of which quickly communicating that they were friends again and all was in the past. He leaned against the railing, whistling and yelling encouragements when Harry was being introduced, all caution about being recognized to the wind. Harry sauntered up to the microphone, guitar bouncing lightly on his upper thighs. The crowd was his, before he could even say, “My name is Harry and we’re going to play some songs for you tonight.”

He zeroed in on Louis immediately and winked at him, which was already a lot. And though Harry played to every inch of the theater, somehow his set was still a conversation between just the two of them about _us_ and _finally_ and _soon._ It felt like a film, holding brief but intense eye contact with his very favorite musician. But fantasies be damned, because Louis knows that he is his.

It doesn’t take them long to kick the champagne. And though Louis certainly wouldn’t have minded getting Harry alone right away, this lazy celebration is the perfect cap to the night. He looks around the pub and can _just_ make out some kind of future for himself – he sees it in Liam’s big heart and and loyal nature, in Niall’s crooked smile and his uncanny ability to make friends out of strangers, and even in Nick’s flagrant flirtatiousness and easy love for Harry.

Harry.

He’ll be fine here. These people will make it okay.

Then his wandering gaze falls on the man himself, who’s demonstrating a trick shot to Liam at the pool table, stretched out over the cue in a rather fetching way. Harry must feel it, because he turns around right after he sinks it, and catches Louis staring at him. He smiles wistfully, and hands the cue over. Nick immediately wraps himself around Liam, saying something about perfecting his form. And maybe on another day, Louis would want to watch and see what comes of that.

But now, Harry is making his way over to Louis, limbs languid on account of the alcohol. _Maybe_ , Louis thinks, _he’ll tell me what’s going on._

Because _something_ is off, that’s for certain. Harry’s not upset – he’s content. But only that.

When he reaches him, Harry tilts Louis’s chin up with his index finger and kisses him softly on the lips, his other hand featherlight on Louis’s hip.

“C’mon,” Harry says then, pulling Louis toward a booth.

Harry slides into the booth first, turning his body so he can lean his back against the wall. He props one foot on the bench itself and leaves the other on the floor, so Louis can situate himself between them, his back to Harry’s front. Louis lays his head back to rest on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry wraps both his arms around him from behind. Harry kisses the side of Louis’s head and they just sit for a while, trading satisfied sighs.

Louis lets himself think about what it might be like to be held by Harry like this somewhere else, specifically in his bed under the string lights in his tiny studio.

“Are you good?” Louis asks, after a while.

“Mmm,” Harry hums idly and drags a fingertip over Louis’s forearm. “What do you think?”

“No, I know _this_ is good. But seriously, what’s wrong? Not that you’d be dancing on tables, but I thought you’d be a little more excited than this. You _smashed_ it, Haz.”

Harry takes a moment to respond, and he’s doesn’t sound bitter when he eventually does.

“Um, it was amazing, being up there,” he says, still drawing shapes on Louis’s skin. “And now I know I’m capable of that. You were right, by the way. But afterwards...I don’t know, it was weird?”

Louis cranes his neck to look back at him. “Weird how?”

“Well, James introduced me to some label guy. And I thought, ‘This is it,’ you know? But then he opened his mouth and it was all wrong.”

“Wrong,” Louis echoes. “Was he not interested?”

“Oh no, he was _interested,”_ Harry clarifies, with a touch of sarcasm. “He was interested in me if I used some contracted songwriter.”

“What?” Louis lifts himself off of Harry so he can face him. “But that’s…you _are_ a songwriter.”

“I know,” Harry says, brushing Louis’s fringe back distractedly. “But I’m not a ‘hitmaker,’ apparently. And this guy is.”

“That’s insane. They liked _you.”_

“They like my potential, but only with their packaging,” Harry says, less incensed than Louis. “That’s how the industry is now, according to James. Fall in line, get in the box.”

“You, of all people, do not belong in a box,” Louis argues, offended.

Harry smiles, touched.

“And that’s not all,” he continues. “The guy wanted to know if I ever thought about cutting my hair.”

“I’ll kill him.”

Harry chuckles and hugs Louis back to him, settling him down.

“It was worth a shot. But it’s not for me.”

“So now what?” Louis asks.

“Work for Niall, play at pubs,” Harry says, without resentment. “Maybe get an office job, try to actually use this English degree. Same old life. Except now I get to take you out on dates.”

Louis wiggles happily in his arms. “I want a _Mario Kart_ rematch.”

“You’re on,” Harry confirms. “Anyway, I could ask you the same thing.”

“Hm?”

“Now what?”

Huh. Louis was so focused on making Harry’s dream come true that he’d forgotten to worry about how he’s going to make a living now. He didn’t know what he was doing at _NME_ in the first place, even if any other publication would hire someone who fucked up as badly as he did. And he has no other marketable skills, unless being able to recite the English monarchs in chronological order counts.

“Niall!” he shouts across the pub, without warning. “Can I have a job?”

“Can you ask me when I’m less drunk?” Niall calls back.

“Deal,” Louis responds. Then, just to Harry, “I guess I’ll figure it out.”

Harry laughs, the vibrations in his chest buzzing through Louis’s too.

“We’re a pair, aren’t we?” he says, amused. “A failed rock star and a disgraced rock critic.”

“Yeah, we should get joint business cards.”

Louis was once so concerned with his reputation that he sold out everyone he ever loved. But tonight, he finds that he just doesn’t give a shit. He’ll work in a bar. He’ll work in a garbage dump. He’ll downsize from that giant flat that actually gives him the creeps.

Harry loves him. His family loves him. And if that’s not good enough for somebody else, they can take a hike.

“I just wish we hadn’t lost all that time,” he says, suddenly serious again.

“I know,” Harry whispers.

They fall quiet for a few minutes, thinking about missed opportunities. Then Louis tries to fight it, but a yawn sneaks out.

“Go to sleep, babe,” Harry suggests. “I’ve got you.”

“Can you sing to me?”

“What do you want me to sing?” Harry asks, rubbing his hand up and down Louis’s arm.

Louis yawns again. “That new one. ’s pretty.”

Louis snuggles into Harry’s chest, turning his body to the side so he doesn’t tumble off the bench. Harry starts to sing quietly into his ear, drowning out the low din of other conversations.

“Sweet creature, sweet creature. Wherever I go, you bring me home.”

Louis is fast asleep before the next lyric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there, kids!


	22. Epilogue

Louis is awoken when the fatty aroma of bacon frying prods at his consciousness. He stirs, then stirs again, distantly expecting Harry to stir beneath him.

As he continues to surface, Louis realizes that he’s no longer lying on lean planes of muscle, and there are no milk chocolate curls tickling his face. Did Harry bring him home last night? Why can’t he remember?

Somewhere below him, he can make out what he thinks are cabinet doors being opened and shut. Strange.

Louis rubs his knuckles into his eyes and then opens them. The first thing he sees when his eyes adjust to the light is not Niall’s dart board, but the Green Day poster he had taped to his bedroom door. His _childhood_ bedroom door.

_What the fuck._

Louis uses his fists to prop himself up so he can get a better look around. He’s definitely home – or dreaming about it – but not in the tasteful guest room his mum had made out of his former haven. There’s his school bag in the corner, one strap about to break. There are his dirty clothes, thrown over his desk chair – curiously, he notes, the very outfit he’d worn to his disastrous 13th birthday party.

His birthday party.

Pulse quickening, Louis scrambles out of bed and races over to his bin. Right on top? The crumpled face of Danny Zuko.

“Holy shit,” he announces to his otherwise empty room.

He looks down at his body, clad in patterned boxers and an oversized t-shirt, legs mostly hairless and more slight than they were when he went to sleep.

“Holy _shit.”_

Louis whips open his closet door to expose the floor-length mirror inside. And it confirms what he already suspected.

“Lou!” Lottie calls from just outside his door. “Wake _up,_ loser. We’re about to do presents!”

He doesn’t answer – he can’t. He’s too busy trying not to pass out.

Louis sits delicately on the bed, mind racing. But there’s no question about it: He’s back in 2004, re-entering his life on the day very day it left him behind. It’s Christmas, he’s 13 again, and less than 12 hours ago, he crushed Harry’s spirit.

Could it all have been some elaborate dream fueled by guilt? For some vague, mystical reason, Louis is quite sure that it wasn’t. He was really there, in 2018. He discovered how his life turns out if he keeps letting himself be ruled by fear. He started to mend fences that he himself had callously broken. He found Harry, and they fell in love.

But Harry doesn’t know any of that, unless he got his own visit from the Ghost of Christmas Future. He’s over at his house right now, freshly rejected by the boy who was supposed to be his protector. Louis can still easily picture his tear-streaked face, looking sorrowfully from Louis to the cupcakes he’d baked then dropped in the snow.

In the other reality, Louis woke up today and continued feeling ashamed about how he treated Harry. But he was too feckless and scared to make it up to him. Instead, he distanced himself as much as he possibly could, hiding behind the facade of a person who didn’t feel a thing. It had broken him, made him someone Louis wouldn’t even want to know.

Not the fuck this time.

Louis springs into action, grabbing his jeans from his chair and tugging them roughly on. He yanks his jumper down over his head, noting and then disregarding the fact that it is on backwards.

He throws open the bedroom door and takes off down the hall, side-stepping and barely missing colliding into Lottie, probably sent back upstairs again to fetch him.

She’s still small and curious, no doubt still obsessed with Britney Spears and the icing on Jaffa Cakes **.** She didn’t grow up without him. She’s right where he left her, and that means the rest of them are too. His heart sings, but he doesn’t stop.

“Lou- _is!”_ she whines.

He stops short at the top of the stairs and whirls around, giving his irritating, brilliant little sister what he believes to be a dazzling smile.

“Happy Christmas, Lots.”

He doesn’t wait for her reaction, just takes off down the stairs, skipping the last two. He unlocks and opens the front door with one hand while he pulls on his boots with the other. His mum sticks her head out of the kitchen when she hears the commotion, hair up for baking.

“Louis darling, where are you going?”

He hobbles over to her, still shoving his right foot down into place as he goes. Louis plants a sloppy kiss on her cheek, right on top of a streak of pancake flour.

“Morning, mum. Isn’t it a _gorgeous_ day?”

She frowns and places the back of her hand against his forehead.

“Are you feeling poorly? I knew I should have sent those boys home earlier. You overdid it.”

“Never been better.” Louis squeezes her upper arms affectionately. “And I’ll be back for Christmas morning stuff, I promise. There’s just one thing I have to do first.”

She takes in the boots and the open door, then understanding dawns, and Jay smiles knowingly. “There’s a good boy,” She runs her hand through Louis’s bed head once, then adds, “Don’t go out without your coat, love. You’ll catch your death.”

He smacks her cheek again. “Love ya.”

“And don’t run!” Jay calls to his back.

_Don’t run. Not bloody likely._ His second chance awaits, right next door. And he’s going to pounce on it (possibly literally) before any other acts of god can get in the way.

Louis shoots out the front door and experiences the strangest sensation as he plows clumsily through the most snow that’s fallen in Doncaster in one night in at least three years. He remembers everything about the Harry he met in London – tall and gorgeous, deep-voiced and kind and painfully sexy. And he remembers his own burning desire to be much more than just best friends with him. But it’s almost as if his consciousness is reordering his emotions, placing some into storage until he’s ready to fully feel them again. Louis isn’t sorry that he’s not running to that Harry right now. Because, in a way, he is.

And the love he feels for Harry now is the kind he always had, though he hadn’t known to call it that before. He thought “love” was for boyfriends and girlfriends, siblings and grandparents. But _of course_ he loves Harry too. What else would you call it when you feel the most yourself with someone? When you only ever want them to be deliriously happy, preferably next to you?

Two steps from his door and Louis is dead sure. There’s no one he wants to see more right now than his 11-year-old neighbor. They have a _lot_ to do.

He’s panting by the time he makes it to the doorstep of the Twist-Styles home, jeans soaked to his knees. Louis raps on the door three times, then bends over, hands on his thighs, trying to catch his breath.

Harry’s mum opens the door after a few seconds, looking cozy in a red and white holiday jumper. Her expression betrays her surprise – not just that Louis is knocking on her door early on Christmas morning, but that he’s doing it at all.

Shame punches Louis in the gut when it strikes him that Harry must have told her what happened last night, how horrific he was.

“Louis! Is everything alright?”

“Fine, fine,” he gasps. “I’m sorry to bother you – happy Christmas, by the way – but I really need to speak to Harry.”

“He’s still in bed,” she explains, peering at Louis in a distinctly accusatory fashion. “He was so upset last night. Took me hours to calm him down.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Louis states. “I’m going to make it up to him, I promise.”

She studies him for a few moments, lips drawn together in a straight line.

_Note to self,_ he thinks, shifting nervously. _Anne is going to need some time._

Then she sighs and moves aside, holding the door open for Louis to enter.

“I suppose he needs to be up before his grandparents arrive anyway.”

Gentle, soft-spoken Anne can be a bit intimidating when she wants to be, it seems. But Louis braves it anyway, grabbing her in a quick hug that obviously catches her off guard.

“Thanks, Anne!” he shouts when he’s already got one foot on the bottom stair. Then he halts and faces her as though he’s just remembered something. “Oh, and you should be so proud of Harry. He’s a really good person.”

“Oh! Um, thank you,” she responds, baffled but also in complete agreement.

The pounding of Louis’s feet on the carpet stairs matches the pounding in his heart, and he’s at the door of Harry’s bedroom in record time. It’s slightly ajar already – Anne must have looked in on him – so Louis pushes it open discreetly.

Nothing could be more normal than the sight of Harry tucked into his own bed, snoring away lightly, curls fanned out on the pillow behind him. But it still brings tears to Louis’s eyes.

He should let him sleep. But every second that Harry isn’t aware that he’s one of the best things in Louis’s life is offensive to him. Even if he’s unconscious. Subtlety, Louis decides, will not do in this situation.

So he gets a few steps of a running start and belly flops into bed next to Harry, sending shockwaves through the mattress and jostling the poor boy.

“Wha–?” Harry calls out, disoriented. He rubs his eyes, and Louis, sprawled on his stomach next to him, takes appreciative note of that adorably disgruntled kitten face Harry always has on when he’s just woken up.

His eyes adjust eventually, and when he comprehends that Louis is his dawn attacker, they go wide.

“Lou?”

He sounds disbelieving, and Louis hates it.

“Yeah, Haz,” he confirms, gently. “’s me. Happy Christmas.”

Harry sits up and looks around, perhaps to find someone else in the room who can explain this to him.

“Why are you here?” he asks, eyes settling back onto Louis.

“Because it’s the best day of the year, and you’re my best mate.” Louis props himself onto his elbow to face Harry directly.

“But...” Harry purses his lips. “You were angry with me.”

Louis could make up any number of excuses for the way he behaved, but instead, he goes straight for the truth.

“I was angry with myself,” he says, earnestly. “And I treated you poorly because of it. I got confused for a bit, yeah? But I’m not anymore. I don’t know if I’d forgive me if I were you, but I really hope you do. Because you’re the very best friend I’ve ever had, and I don’t care what anybody else thinks about it.”

Sleepy-eyed and vulnerable, Harry stares at him. It dawns on Louis for the first time that he might _not_ forgive him. He might tell Louis to go to hell. Or the ridiculously polite version of that sentiment, because he’s him.

Instead of answering either way, Harry asks Louis a question.

“Did you like the song though?

Louis shoots up to sit cross legged on the bed, so they’re eye-to-eye.

“Haz, it’s so, so good,” he says, about ten different emotions fighting for supremacy inside of him. “Best birthday present I’ve ever gotten.”

A smile and a blush creep onto Harry’s face, and it’s encouraging. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Louis beams. “If you want, we could work on it a little bit together after Christmas breakfast?”

He nods, pleased.

“Good,” Louis pronounces.

And it’s settled.

*****

They’re attached at the hip for the next several days, watching DVDs, feasting on leftover Christmas pudding, and, of course, listening to the new albums each of them received as gifts. Stan calls once to see if Louis wants to come for a drive with him, Rob, and Zayn. Louis declines, telling Stan he’ll catch up with him later. Alone.

When school starts up again after winter hols, Louis makes up the talent show disaster to Harry by inviting him to the secondary school yard during lunch to play and sing some songs. It becomes a bit of a tradition, and they’re so polite and popular that the administration doesn’t mind students busking on their property.

 

When Louis is 14 and Harry is 12, there’s a scene in the school car park. From what Louis can gather from a safe distance, Zayn dropped a milkshake in Rob’s car, and in retaliation, Rob threatens to murder Zayn in cold blood in front of all of his classmates. He spares him, in the end, settling for just whipping the rest of the cold substance at him. But Zayn doesn’t knock around with the older kids at all after that, and because he’d already alienated most of his peers in his own year, he becomes a bit of a loner. He’s sitting by himself at lunch one day when Harry asks Louis if they can invite Zayn to join them. And Louis is too fond of this boy and his endless compassion to let his own leftover hesitation win the day. So Zayn sits at their table on that day and the next and the next, and eventually he even talks. Over time, the three find common ground they didn’t think they had, and sometimes, Zayn even visits their little lane after school.

 

When Louis is 15 and Harry is 13, Louis turns down the volume on _Revolver_ because he has something he wants to tell Harry. Harry says that it’s just fine that Louis is gay – that Louis can be whatever he wants. He doesn’t match the announcement with his own, but Louis isn’t surprised. Who knows if he’s really considered his identity fully yet or whether he wants to classify himself at all? They don’t talk much the rest of the day, just let the Beatles lull them into a peaceful reverie, legs tangled together as they lay propped up on opposite ends of the sofa.

 

When Louis is 16 and Harry is 14, they have a sleepover the night Harry has gone to a school dance.

They’re facing each other in Louis’s bed, whispering in the moonlight, as usual.

“So Leigh-Anne said if she had to kiss someone, it’d be Olly,” Harry explains. “And everyone laughed and cheered and stuff. And then it was my turn. They wanted to know which girl in my class I wanted to kiss.”

“What’d you say?” Louis asks, trying to sound casual. His memories of 2018 have faded steadily every year, leaving him with nothing more specific than a feeling. It’s enough of a feeling that he fears Harry’s answer to this question, worried that something vital will slip through his fingers if Harry goes exploring. Not sure if he can handle it if he has to watch him with someone else because he, Louis respects, may not be as confident in Louis as Louis is in him.

Harry mumbles something Louis doesn’t quite catch.

“What?”

“I said, ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I can only imagine kissing one person right now,” he says, sounding sheepish.

Ignoring the cold dread shoring up inside him, Louis pokes at Harry’s dimple with his index finger. “Are you going to tell me? Come on, who is it?”

Harry hesitates. It’s too dark for Louis to see his face, which isn’t fair, because he can always read it.

“Is it weird if I say you?” Harry says so quietly it’s almost swallowed up by the night.

But it’s not, and relief spreads through Louis’s body.

“No,” Louis laughs softly. “That’s not weird.”

He’s smiling when he shuffles his body forward and presses his closed mouth to Harry’s, which is warm and soft and tastes of punch.

Louis pulls away almost immediately, careful to respect Harry’s boundaries and protect this new (but really _not_ new) thing.

“Mmmm,” Harry hums happily, turning over so his back is facing Louis and scooting closer to him. “That was very nice.”

Louis throws an arm around Harry and holds him fast.

_We’ve got time,_ he thinks.

 

When Louis is (almost) 17 and Harry is 15, they take the bus downtown to Christmas shop for their families. They linger in every store, test-driving toy sets and trying on silly accessories to make each other laugh. So it’s dark by the time they decide they’d better head home to their worried mothers. It hadn’t snowed a full inch that day. But what did accumulate lightly frosts the lit up trees that encircle the shopping center. Snow crunches under their feet as they walk, and it’s all so magical that Louis is compelled to boldly link his arm through Harry’s. Harry lightly digs his fingers into Louis’s bicep and gives him a shy smile.

When they reach the bus stop, Louis leans as far out into the street as he dares, just to find that there’s no bus in sight. When he turns to say as much to Harry, he’s caught off guard by his friend’s suddenly serious expression.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just slowly and deliberately invades Louis’s space. They’re about the same height now, so Louis doesn’t have to strain to see how Harry’s eyes are snapping from his eyes to his lips and then back again. He’s giving Louis an out, albeit one he has no interest in taking. Instead, he stays planted in place, mesmerized by the way Harry – _Harry_ – is taking control of this situation.

When they’re so close that the collars of their coats are touching, Harry darts his tongue out to wet his lips and smiles in satisfaction when Louis instinctively does the same. Then he rests a hand on the exposed column of Louis’s neck and leans in to brush their lips together. It’s light and sweet at first, but then Harry takes their bags from Louis and drops them haphazardly on the bench so their hands are free for other things. They melt into each other, and end up missing the next bus.

One week later, Harry tells Anne that Louis is now his best friend _and_ his boyfriend.

 

When Louis is 18 and Harry is 16, they get each other off for the first time. They’re underneath Harry’s duvet, his sister away at university and his parents out for the evening. Shirts rucked up to their armpits and pants yanked down to their thighs, they work their hands furiously over each other’s cocks, sweaty, hair matted foreheads pressed together. Nicknames like “Lou” and “Haz” melt into endearments like “love” and “baby.” They come almost simultaneously, making out sloppily straight through it. When his mother asks why Harry changed and washed his sheets, he says Louis dropped a full can of soda on his bed.

A few months later, Louis leaves for the University of Leeds. Harry cries when they say goodbye at the train station, but Louis somehow holds it together until he’s settled in his seat, feeling like he just left a limb behind.

Louis’s flatmate is a solid, cheerful bloke named Liam who’s in some stalemate with his father about his course of study. Over a few late-night talks, Louis convinces Liam that it’s okay to follow his heart and that he can’t just hand over his life to someone else if he ever wants to be happy. Liam declares Music Theory as soon as he’s able, and his father begrudgingly comes around in a few short days.

 

When Louis is 19 and Harry is 17, they are ready. Louis can’t believe how anxious he is, how much he needs everything to be perfect. His room in the flat he shares with Liam is spotless and dotted with candles, but all material signs of romance are forgotten when he and Harry slowly and carefully remove each other’s clothes, fingertips dancing over flushed skin. Then Harry is spread out underneath him, hands fisted in the sheets and legs wrapped around Louis’s waist, and Louis forgets that he has no idea what he’s doing.

“Am I hurting you?” Louis breathes when he’s finally moving inside Harry.

“‘s you,” Harry gasps, eyes locked onto Louis’s. “You could never hurt me.”

His absolute trust in him is what puts Louis over the edge.

 

When Louis is 20 and Harry is 18, Harry arrives in London for school and gets a part-time job at a pub for spending money. He hits it off with the owner’s grandson, who says he’s inheriting the place in time because his father isn’t interested. Niall lets Harry, Louis, and Liam – and Zayn when he comes to spend a weekend – have the “friends and family” discount, which is something he made up and no one else knows about.

One lazy Sunday afternoon, Louis and Harry stop into the tattoo shop down the street from the pub, just to take a look around. They walk out two hours later marked with each other’s handwriting and the first words they can remember saying to each other.

 

When Louis is 21 and Harry is 19, they’re out clubbing to celebrate Liam’s birthday. Their party expands when a tall, slim guy in patterned shirt hooks his finger into the birthday sash they’ve forced Liam to wear as they pass and demands to buy him a drink. Louis is so in favor of Liam getting laid that he sends him an Uber gift card right on the spot, much to his flatmate’s embarrassment. Surprisingly, Nick sticks around much longer than the average one-night stand, and Liam is happier than his friends have ever seen him.

 

When Louis is 22 and Harry is 20, Louis gets his first teaching job, in a secondary school music department. He comes home to Harry every night exhausted but full of stories about his funny, curious kids. If he’s especially fond of the sensitive, talkative ones, well...no one but his boyfriend has to know.

 

When Louis is 23 and Harry is 21, Gemma gets married in a hall filled to almost bursting with wildflowers. Harry and Louis run the dance floor all night, ties pulled loose from their collars. Anne insists Louis be included in all the family photos.

 

When Louis is 24 and Harry is 22, they decide they ought to start playing together again – somewhere outside of their flat, at least. Niall automatically offers them the stage at The Cross Keys on whatever night they like, but Harry and Louis insist on “auditioning.” They build up a little following beyond their reliable audience of Nick, Liam, and Zayn, who come out regularly to hear their classic rock covers and eventually, a few originals. Niall’s girlfriend Hailee designs a logo for their two names, and their friends surprise them at one gig by wearing a rainbow of printed t-shirts.

 

When Louis is 25 and Harry is 23, they’re in a car on the way home from the Switchboard’s annual fundraising gala. Harry’d been incandescent all night in his role as Program Director, radiating with pride as he regaled donors with stories of the helpline’s success. It’s a tough call, but Louis maybe loves him the most when he watches Harry with some of the young people he’s directly helped – tonight, giving them encouragement, support, and high fives before they walked onstage to deliver their testimonial speeches. He can’t stop talking about them now, and Louis is delighted to listen, smiling indulgently all the while.

“’m sorry, I’ll shut up eventually,” Harry says, bashfully, once he stops to take a breath. “Just excited for them.”

After the Uber speeds away, Louis drops down to one knee on the wet pavement and asks Harry to marry him. Just like that.

 

And when Louis is 26 and Harry is 24, they’re up far too late the night before their wedding. Niall had declared himself the master of their rehearsal dinner and offered up The Cross Keys as a venue. Not fancy, but it was pretty much perfect, as far as the grooms are concerned. Their families gamely piled into the pub and ate and drank like champs, but they’re long gone now. Even Zayn’s partners Gigi and Blake called it a night, and they can usually be relied upon to shut the place down.

“What do you think?” Harry says, sleepily, pointing to Liam and Nick hip to hip in front of the jukebox. “These two next?”

“Easy, Harold,” Nick says, without turning around. “Must spend these credits first.” But then he snakes an arm around Liam’s waist, and Liam looks at him so fondly that Harry reckons that’s almost an actual answer.

“Commitment's a beautiful thing, boys,” Zayn supplies, from his perch on the pool table. “Don’t know what I’d do without my two. Make me a better man, innit?”

Nick makes his selection, and Ariana Grande’s new single wafts through the speakers.

“Aye, you’re twice the man the rest of us are then,” Niall smirks, wiping down the taps.

Zayn raises his beer in salute, then takes a swig.

“I was thinking,” Liam muses, sitting backwards on a chair in the middle of the room and looking at Louis and Harry curled up in their favorite booth. “It’s you two who brought us all together. Half of us wouldn’t have met if we didn’t know one of you.”

“Huh.” Louis looks around the room, remembering the timeline and drawing invisible strings to link them all together. “Suppose that’s true.”

“Who’s mom and who’s dad then?” Nick teases.

“See, Grim, that’s a joke my kids would call ‘problematic,’” Louis counters cheekily. Harry tilts his chin down to smirk at him.

“Which is why we must never meet,” Nick decides solemnly. “Who d’you reckon will get whom in the divorce?”

Niall whips a bar mop at him, and Nick ducks just in time. “Don’t say d-i-v-o-r-c-e the night before their w-e-d-d-i-n-g!”

“Is that even a superstition?” Harry drawls, unbothered.

“Dunno,” Niall says, gravely. “Can’t be good though.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Louis provides.

“Hey, I’m just trying to help!” Niall says, then sets off to disentangle the pink and white streamers they strung up around the bar, muttering something about tempting fate.

Louis isn’t too worried, however. He figures fate’s been pretty good to him.

And he doesn’t tend to go for all that, in general. Won’t even let Harry do his chart. But he does find that it’s hard to stop once you get started thinking on it – it being chance and choice. In any number of possible realities, he’s in this one, snuggled against the chest of his almost-husband, surrounded by very stupid but lovely friends. There are so many other ways this could have gone, and Louis knows this. Intellectually. But he just can’t envision an existence where he and Harry _don’t_ find each other. It only seems rational that the universe would bend itself to ensure that they met. And that one of them wasn’t, like, 100 years old when the other was a baby, or whatever.

No, Louis is certain. In any of those possible universes, he’d still end up here.

“What are you thinking?” Harry murmurs in his ear, breath warm and hoppy.

“That if I had a time machine, I’d marry you right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, now that we've come to the end, a few things:
> 
> 1\. I genuinely had NO IDEA I was writing Payneshaw until after it was already on the page. The heart wants what the heart wants I guess, and my heart was working undercover. I think it works though.
> 
> 2\. ANOTHER shout out to my flawless betas, crinkle-eyed-boo and disgruntledkittenface. I treasure you both.
> 
> 3\. I took a lot of poetic license in this fic, not limited to the current existence of NME, which has sadly shuttered IRL. 
> 
> 4\. Please leave kudos and comments if you enjoyed! I'm desperate to hear from you.
> 
> 5\. And please reblog [the Tumblr post,](http://a-brighter-yellow.tumblr.com/post/176893271998/high-enough-for-you-to-pull-me-under-by) if you're into that kind of thing.


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